Below the Belt
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: Only Sherlock Holmes would be an idiot enough to reveal his heart in a way that got him into some very boiling water with his pathologist. Will he be able to pull himself out in time, or has he blown his chances forever?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_This is my first attempt at Sherlolly fanfiction. I love this pairing so much, even more so because I know it's never going to happen on the show based solely upon the Sherlock character and how the writers portray him. I am writing two other stories now so this is probably an unwise undertaking, but Benedict Cumberbatch has captured my heart and will not let me go! Not that I want him to :D. Please enjoy and indulge me with a kind word or two._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Tea and Dress Shirts**

"JOHN, GET UP, I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY!"

This was how John H. Watson was woken from his sleep in the upstairs bedroom at 221B Baker Street this pleasant May morning in London, England. Thankfully, hardly anything surprised him about the behavior of his flatmate and best friend anymore. Whether it was finding decomposing body parts in the fridge or witnessing his famous "boredom tantrums" that matched any toddler, John had learned how to take it in stride rather than waste valuable energy trying to change the unchangeable.

So, with a resigned groan, John rolled out of bed and rubbed his eyes with one hand as he made his way out of the room and down the stairs. The longer he took to get downstairs, the more likely the chance of Sherlock resorting to shooting at the wall in order to speed him along.

Upon entering the sitting room, he found something that _did _surprise him: Sherlock, in his pajamas and blue dresssing gown, coming out of the kitchen carrying two cups of steaming tea, and holding one out to him. "Earl Grey with lemon, correct?"

His mind clouded with sleep and surprise, all John could do was stare at the teacup, scratch the back of his neck and say, "Uhhh…."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the teacup into John's hands before beginning to pace. "I know you're not a morning person, John, but even you aren't _that _much of an idiot."

The fresh insult having woken him up somewhat, John sniffed the tea suspiciously and asked point-blank. "What do you want?"

"Excuse me?" asked Sherlock indignantly, stopping in his pacing to look at John.

"You don't go out of your way to be nice unless you want something, now answer me," clarified John, speaking like a parent would to a naughty child.

"I merely want you to accompany me to St. Bart's this morning," said Sherlock, looking offended. "And I don't appreciate my going out of the way to make the morning tea being treated like an attempt to poison you."

Remembering the coffee Sherlock had made him in Baskerville all those months ago, John knew he had good reason to be suspicious of anything Sherlock gave him to consume. Nevertheless, to prevent a tantrum, John took a careful sip and was relieved to find the brew exactly how he liked it. It was nice to know that Sherlock paid attention to details of their life he called 'boring' so many times.

Noticing Sherlock's intent gaze on his cup, waiting for a reaction, he nodded reassuringly. "It's good, thank you," he said, and took a bigger sip before speaking again. "Sure I'll go with you to St. Bart's, you hardly need to ask. We get a new case?"

"It's…an experiment," said Sherlock slowly, beginning to pace again and avoiding John's gaze.

His blogger rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. When Sherlock had no cases, the best thing to relieve his boredom would be to 'experiment' on bodies and/or body parts from the morgue of St. Bart's. Hoping beyond hope that he would not have to clear a space in the fridge when they got back, John grumbled after finishing off his tea. "Dunno why you're going so far as to make tea in order for me to go – unless you want to bring a cadaver back here, because I draw the line at that."

"No, John, no body will be coming back here with us," said Sherlock impatiently. "Now will you get dressed so we can go?"

"Fine, Sherlock," said John, who went from annoyed to amused as he looked at his friend. "But I do hope that _you _don't plan to go to Bart's in your pajamas."

Sherlock looked down at his attire, his eyes wide as if my comment made him realize he wasn't dressed to go out, and then rushed away in a flash, closing his bedroom door behind him.

For a moment, John could only stand there in surprise and look down at his now empty tea cup. _What in the world has gotten into him?_

* * *

Just as John was buttoning up a comfortable plaid shirt, his door burst open and there stood Sherlock. He still wore his dressing gown, and was holding up two of his dress shirts, one light blue and one dark purple. "Which one?" he asked, his face and tone neutral but his eyes anxious.

For the second time this morning, Sherlock had completely surprised John and all he could say in response was, "Ummm…"

"For God's sake, John, you are _useless_ this morning!" exclaimed Sherlock, like a teenage girl speaking to her mother. "Considering how many girls you ploughed through before settling on that Mary, you would have more of a valid opinion upon which option a female would find more pleasing to the eye on the figure of my person."

Deciding to save his confusion of the entire situation for a time when Sherlock would be at least partly willing to answer, John remembered where they were headed and said, "Sherlock, why does it matter? This is Molly we're going to see, not some women you don't know."

"Exactly," said Sherlock curtly and shook the shirts slightly. "Now answer the question."

Deciding to just go along with it and ask questions in the cab, John looked at both shirts for a minute and then pointed to the light blue one. "That one, I suppose. Brings out your eyes." He closed his eyes after that remark; clearly he'd been shopping with Mary one too many times. "Erase that from your mind palace right now and get changed, please."

"Done," said Sherlock, and with that disappeared back down the stairs.

John slowly closed the door to his room and let what had just happened sink in. Then he laughed. _Sherlock _worrying about what to wear, wanting to please? In the six months that he and Sherlock had been living together again since Sherlock's return from the dead, John had not noticed anything different about his behavior. So where was all of this coming from?

Not wanting to jump to any conclusions prematurely (something that should _never _be done in the case of Sherlock Holmes), John decided to keep observing and gathering information before formulating a theory.

He hoped what would come would be as amusing as this morning was turning out to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: You're Not Molly**

Nothing that Sherlock did was half-assed, as John knew all too well. When working, he threw himself into it, discarding food and sleep in the process. When depressed, he was an inert lump on their couch who did not talk for days on end. When bored, he did anything – absolutely anything – he could to relieve it. So while it surprised John to see Sherlock nervous, he was not surprised at how apparent it was (even though Sherlock attempted to hide it). All throughout the cab ride to St. Bart's, the fingers of Sherlock's left hand restlessly tapped against his thigh, and the balls of his feet were bouncing faster than any dancers. Even the neutral expression on his face was set a little too tight.

As the elevator made it's way slowly down to the morgue, John saw Sherlock shift on the balls of his feet and adjust his collar, looking into the reflection of the shining elevator doors. "You seem a bit on edge," said John, careful to keep his tone casual rather than interrogative.

"Not at all," replied Sherlock immediately and coldly.

But he couldn't fool John. "Come off it, Sherlock. I haven't seen you this jittery since the Baskerville case."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please do not mention that case, I'd rather not like to think of my failures right now."

"You must want something very badly today," commented John, hoping to get some information.

"You could say that," said Sherlock mysteriously. The lift doors opened and Sherlock walked quickly out, with John following behind and wondering what on Earth was going on.

As he always did, Sherlock burst through the swinging morgue doors as if he owned the place. "Good morning, Molly, I would like to –" His confident speech stopped immediately, along with his steps, when he saw the person in the white coat bent over a cadaver. John entered the morgue right behind him.

For the first time since he had met Sherlock, John heard him state something blatantly obvious without prompting: "You're not Molly."

It took all of John willpower to choke back his laughter.

The pathologist working was indeed not Molly, it being a male with blond hair and all. "Nnnno…I'm Alec, who are you?"

"Where's Dr. Molly Hooper?" asked Sherlock, his tone leaving no room for bullshit.

"I don't know, she took a personal day, I'm filling in," replied Alec. "And I don't think you should be down here at all!"

Sherlock's ice blue gaze became even sharper as he sized the young pathologist up and down. "Oh, boy…" muttered John to himself, knowing that there would be no stopping Sherlock now.

"Clearly new to St. Bart's, not only because I've never seen you before, but because all of your clothes are new and ironed. Want to make a good first impression. But I'm afraid the size label you've left on the left pant leg has already given people the rightful impression that you are an idiot. Either that or the fact that you used your girlfriend's deoderant by mistake this morning – the odor really doesn't suit you and has the danger of making one slightly nauseous. Also, the coral red lipstick smudge you've missed just below your pulse point tells me you've gotten into the pants of that blonde receptionist on the ground floor, who loves to greet new arrivals by opening her thighs. I hope you've used protection, though, since the sore she's trying to disguise with foundation above her lip could indicate her herpes has flared up again. I'll give you two, three weeks tops, as to how long you'll last here. Now excuse me while I go and find _my_ pathologist!"

With that, Sherlock turned around on his heel and, with a sweep of his Belstaff coat, was gone. John stood there awkwardly for a moment before saying to the gobsmacked Alec, "Um…sorry bout that, um…bye." Then he was racing after Sherlock, who was already texting on his phone by the time John caught up with him.

* * *

It took Sherlock less than an hour back in Baker Street before he was looking for John's gun to shoot at the wall.

"Cut it out, Sherlock!" exclaimed John, holding Sherlock back from going up to John's room. "That is _not _going to help."

"It would relieve my frustrations!" said Sherlock stubbornly.

"No, it would make them worse and would result in you blowing this place up." With quite a bit of effort, John managed to plop Sherlock down on the couch. Then he took his own armchair, turned it towards Sherlock, and sat down. "Now, tell me what's going on."

"Thirty-seven," said Sherlock, who was texting again.

"What?"

"I've sent her thirty-seven texts now, and she hasn't replied to one of them!" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Who, Molly?"

"Who else do you think I mean?"

"What do you want from the morgue so badly, Sherlock?" asked John, thoroughly perplexed.

"Nothing. Molly never takes personal days, or even sick days!"

"Well, then, she must have had a very good reason," said John logically. "Have you tried calling her?"

"I don't like making calls," said Sherlock like a petulant child. But as he said it, he was dialing Molly's mobile number and then pressed the phone to his ear. Two seconds later, his eyes widene and he withdrew the phone. "Straight to voicemail…her phone is off, why is her phone off?"

"Well, her phone could be out of battery power –"

"Nonsense, John, Molly would never be that careless."

"– or she does not want to be disturbed right now."

"But _why_?" asked Sherlock in frustration, getting up to pace again. "_Why _would she cut herself off like that?" His movements stopped immediately. "Unless…unless something is wrong. You said it yourself, John – Molly would _have _to have a good reason. Something must have happened to her."

As he spoke, he was putting on his coat and scarf. John put on his own jacket upon hearing that, now fearing for Molly, too.

In the next minute, both were out of 221B and hailing a cab to take them to Molly's place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Investigating vs. Violating**

The cab ride to Molly Hooper's flat was relatively short; it was only two blocks away from St. Bart's. Since The Fall, John and Molly had grown closer and became very good friends. When Sherlock had returned, John couldn't find it in his heart to be angry with her, for he knew that she really hadn't any choice. He truly hoped that Molly was all right, and not hurt in any way. But it seemed that his worry was nothing compared to that of the consulting detective sitting beside him. He looked ready to positively shoot out of the cab the moment Molly's building was in sight.

During the short ride, John tried to think of what exactly was going on. He knew better than to try and ask Sherlock now, not until they knew where and how Molly was. Going over Sherlock's behavior thus far, John could only come to one conclusion, but he immediately regarded it as impossible. If this were not Sherlock, John would say without a doubt that Molly had herself an admirer. But this was Sherlock, the man who had said, time after time, that his work was all he cared about, that he hated sentiment and emotions and would never indulge in them. Perhaps he was asexual, even.

Also, John was not even sure that Molly was still besotted with Sherlock. The way she was with him after The Fall was quite a bit different to how she had been before. She no longer stuttered when speaking to him, only blushed once and a while, and certainly did not let him walk all over her. Then again, he hadn't really tried to. True, he had his moments of being an ass, but Molly would put him in his placer quicker (and even with greater effect) than John. But overall, Sherlock's behavior greatly improved when around Molly.

The both of them had certainly changed, especially with each other. John was pretty sure that had everything to do with the fact that Molly had taken Sherlock in for a while after The Fall. He knew the trials and tribulations of living with Sherlock Holmes, but he couldn't imagine housing a Sherlock who had to be completely cooped up, hidden, and also physically weak. He shuddered at the thought.

No wonder Molly was among the strongest, trustworthy people worthy of respect that he knew, and that was saying something for the veteran soldier.

Thinking all of this over, another theory formed in John's mind. Though it seemed more plausible, he certainly hoped it wasn't true. What if Sherlock wanted the old Molly back? The Molly more easy to manipulate through flattery and intimidation in order to get what he wanted? John had to bite back a groan at such a thought. That would be low, even for Sherlock, and he wished he could rule it out more quickly than his first theory. Unfortunately, he couldn't.

But, if this was Sherlock's intention, why would Sherlock ask him to come along? Sherlock knew that John would do all in his power to stop him doing something like that.

Not for the first time, John wished that his mind, which Sherlock so loved to call "barely used," were of the same caliber as his best mate.

* * *

True to John's prediction, Sherlock shot out of the cab the moment the car began to slow down outside of Molly's building. Annoyed at this – and the fact that Sherlock had left him to pay – John was soon following Sherlock into the building and up to Molly's flat.

Sherlock no short of pounded on her front door when he arrived at it. "Molly! Open the door!"

No answer.

He pounded again. "_Molly!_"

"Sherlock, she may not even be home!" said John in exasperation.

Immediately, Sherlock pressed his ear to the door and listened. "All I hear is the cat," said Sherlock. He then pulled out a paper clip and scalpel from his Belstaff coat pocket and went to work on the lock.

"Sherlock!" cried John. "You can't violate her privacy like that; she's your friend and trusts you!"

"And what if she can't come to the door, John?" asked Sherlock, not pausing in his careful and expert lock-picking. "What if she is hurt or in trouble? It's not violating, it's investigating."

John sighed, knowing that there was no point in arguing. "Fine," he said, crossing his arms and resting his back against the opposite wall. "Call me if something is wrong, but I'm not violating her personal space without a good reason."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, opened the door and went inside, the door nearly swinging shut behind him.

John gave him thirty seconds before calling into the flat, "Anything wrong?"

"Molly's not here," came Sherlock's curt reply. "No sign of foul play or injury."

"Good," said John. "Then come on. You've no reason to be in there anymore."

No reply. John was sure he heard Sherlock flip through the pages of some kind of book. This was the last straw, so now he was the one who pounded on the door. "Sherlock, get out here before I drag you out, and you _know_ I can!"

A few seconds later, Sherlock nearly pummeled John when he left Molly's apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. "And you say _I _have a flair for the dramatic," he grumbled.

When the two of them were back on the sidewalk outside of Molly's building. "Did you at least figure anything out while you were snooping?"

"_Investigating, _John," said Sherlock. "Take out your phone, I need you to look up a name."

John took out his phone and opened the Web application. "What's the name?"

"Dr. Hing is all it read. Must work at St. Bart's, Molly wouldn't go to another hospital."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" John muttered distractedly as he typed in the name.

"I found her day planner. Nothing listed for today, but yesterday she wrote down an appointment time with a Dr. Hing just after her morning shift."

John just gave Sherlock a disgusted look; that explained the page-turning he had heard. Knowing anything reproach would fall on deaf ears, John just finished typing and looked at the first result. "Yep, there's a Dr. Susan Hing at St. Bart's…hmm. She's an endocrinologist. I wonder why Molly would –"

"Shut up, John," snapped Sherlock, holding up his hands and closing his eyes. "I need to go into my mind palace."

With that, Sherlock became completely still, his palms pressed together under his chin in his signature thinking pose standing. Now all John could do was stand next to Sherlock and give a friendly smile to the passersby who looked at Sherlock warily. John really hoped that they would not be standing there for hours.

Thankfully, Sherlock was only in his mind palace for a few minutes before emerging with a more determined look than ever. "Taxi!" he cried, holding up his arm to an approaching cab.

"Where are we going now?" asked John, not sure that this next part of their journey would be nearly as amusing as the beginning had been.

"Kensington Gardens."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Storm Cloud on a Sunny Day**

There were few things that Molly Hooper felt absolutely certain about in her life, but this was one of them: she would never tire of looking at the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens. She could always find something beautiful on the statue to be mesmerized by. Whether it be the alert rabbits, the curious fairies, or the devoted children looking up at the focal point of the statue: little Peter Pan, playing his flute and standing tall.

She focused on the statue rather than the families and children playing around her, until she saw two little girls – who couldn't have been more than five – chasing each other around the statue in fairy costumes and homemade wands splashed with glitter. Despite Molly's mood, she couldn't help the soft smile that spread across her face at the sight. She had been just like them at that age, with her best friend Mia. She'd died of leukemia just before Molly had gone to university. It had been a long time coming, but Molly still missed her every day, just like her father.

Then…it was as though a raging black storm cloud descended on this place of innocence.

_"Molly!"_

So quickly that her neck cricked, Molly turned her head in the direction of the noise. She would know that voice anywhere, but she had never heard it sound so…she couldn't define it, but it certainly wasn't placid. He was coming toward her at a rapid stride, just short of jogging, his signature coat flaring out behind him like a cape. Poor John _was _jogging, trying to keep up with him.

The two little fairies, at the sound and sight of the consulting detective, gave frightened yelps and ran away. This Molly saw out of the corner of her eye, but she was frozen. Her hands gripped the bench tightly, ready to hold on for dear life in the face of the storm approaching her at a rapid rate. For, even in the midday June sun, he certainly resembled a storm cloud.

Sherlock stopped several feet in front of her bench, no short of towering over her. His face was a storm of emotions, which was very rare for him. And with each word he spoke, Molly's sight took on a shade of red.

"There you are! Have you any idea how much of an annoyance this search for you has been? I come to Bart's expecting you to be right where you should be, and instead find an incompetent, adulterous twat where _you _should be. How a man like that could have gotten a medical degree without dropping his pants is beyond me. And how _dare _you turn off your phone and not tell me you wouldn't be working today? What if a new murder case had come up? What if I had to start on a new experiment right away? You are not that stupid to resort to such foolish behavior! And the reasons behind this are not even logically enough to account for your actions. If you really wanted children, you would have settled for some kind of virile, half-witted man by now. But the result of your appointment must have had discouraging results or your actions would have been different. Though my knowledge in this field is spotty, I would say the diagnosis is endometriosis, considering the Midol and hot-water bottles you always have stocked and the heavy tampons and pads I've seen under your bathroom sink –"

_"SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

In Afghanistan, John had been in many situations where all he could do was watch horrors fold in front of him and be powerless to stop them. That's exactly how he felt now, as Sherlock just let it out at Molly.

At first, John was too in shock and still completely confused about the whole situation to say anything. He could just watch them: Sherlock's cold and logical tone contrasting with the emotions that were storming on his face, Molly sitting frozen with wide eyes on the bench. But once Sherlock began to disclose what he had deduced to be Molly's reasons – and since this was Sherlock, they would turn out to be right – John felt horror and anger fill him about what was happening. He tried saying Sherlock's name to get him to stop, but the attempts fell on deaf ears to Sherlock, who just kept talking, and Molly, who grew chalk white while her doe eyes filled with tears.

There was nothing for it but to shout as loudly as he could: _"SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!" _

Thankfully for everyone, it worked. Sherlock stopped and turned abruptly to John, as if he'd forgotten John had even come with him. He looked annoyed and flustered to being interrupted, but his face became even paler in fear as he took in the look on John's face and the way he was slowly shaking his head. And John made sure every emotion he was feeling for Sherlock be more than clear for Sherlock's genius brain to read: shock, anger, disgust, and deep disappointment. This was just like the Christmas party, but ten times worse.

The sound of murmurs caused them both to look around. John's heart sank as he remembered how public a place they were in. The families, couples and commuters who had been nearby had all frozen in shock by the scene Sherlock had created, and were either looking with disgust at Sherlock or compassion at Molly.

Fear filling the both of them, John and Sherlock slowly turned their heads to look at the pathologist, still sitting and gripping the bench. Her head was lowered now, and she was taking a deep breath to control the shaking of her body. John could think of nothing he could possibly say to remedy the situation, and Sherlock – for once – had the good sense not to open his mouth.

Then again, was there anything worse he could have said in that moment?

After a few seconds that seemed to last for hours, Molly slowly got up from the bench and, with her head lowered like a shamed child, walked right up to Sherlock. She looked so dejected that John's heart twisted in his chest. _My God, he's broken her…_

This certainly seemed true in the next moment, for Molly reached up with the hand not holding her purse, placed it on his shoulder and said, without raising her face, "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Her voice certainly sounded broken.

But what happened next not even Sherlock on a case could have seen coming.

In the next moment, using her hand on his shoulder as leverage, Molly had kneed him square between his legs without mercy.

John's jaw dropped as far as it could go, and all of the bystanders gasped or exclaimed in shock. Sherlock immediately doubled over with a pathetic groan, and then fell on his hands and knees at Molly's feet. The petite pathologist, who John was sure had never inflicted so much pain on any living body, was looking down at the consulting detective with tears streaming down her still very pale face.

When she spoke, her cold tone reflected the emotions on her face: anger, disappointment and heartbreak. "I'm sorry it took me so long to do that." She looked up from the figure on all fours at the shell-shocked doctor/blogger. "Afternoon, John," she said courteously. She then turned on her heel and walked away. The witnesses she passed cheered and gave her proud words of comfort, but she acknowledged no one. While her quick stride away from the statue was not exactly bouncy, it was strong.

* * *

**A/N: **_And now you know the explanation behind the title. Don't hate me – you know after everything he put her through he deserved it._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **_So glad that no one was mad at me for that last chapter. All of the reviews have SPOILED me! I'm on a roll now, so keep reviewing and I'll keep going. I hope this story is as much fun for you to read as it is for me to write._

* * *

**Chapter 5: With a Little Help From My Friends**

Anyone who witnessed Dr. John Watson escort Sherlock Holmes back to their Baker Street flat would have been given a very comical sight. Mycroft Holmes, who always had surveillance on the two of them, had the best laugh he'd had in years. It was, indeed, a comical sight. John Watson had Sherlock's Holmes' coat collar in a vice grip, marching more fiercely than he had in the service with an expression more stormy than Sherlock's had been in the park. Sherlock, for his part, was hunched over and bandy-legged, his face a grimace of the pain that still resonated in his nether regions. The height difference made the sight twice as funny as it would otherwise have been.

And anybody who had also witness the scene in Kensington Gardens knew that the consulting detective deserved it.

When back in Baker Street, John led Sherlock right to his bedroom and nearly threw him (none too gently) onto his bed. Neither had spoken a word since Molly had surprised them all, but as he watch Sherlock curl up in pain on his bed, John broke their silence as he paced back and forth – unconsciously copying Sherlock.

"You know, I dearly hope that I do not have to explain what you did wrong back there or why you deserve _every bit _of pain you're feeling now. If not, I don't know that I could feel more disgusted or disappointed in you than I already do right now. You'll just have to put that wonderous brain of yours in overdrive and I'm _sure _you'll think of something. So just tell me one thing, Sherlock, so I can at least _begin _to comprehend what just happened: What did you want from her in the first place? Did you want access to the morgue whenever she wasn't around, or did you just want to break her down to the old Molly because you don't like the inconvenience of being put in your place when you're an unreasonable _bastard_?"

John stopped his pacing with his hands on his hips, looking at Sherlock on the bed. His back was to the doctor, and he didn't make a sound. John waited for a few minutes for an answer, but when he felt he would get none, he gave an exasperated scowl and opened Sherlock's bedroom door.

"A date."

John paused when he heard Sherlock's voice. It was quiet for once, so John had to make sure he wasn't imagining things. "Pardon me?"

"I wanted to ask Molly…to go on a date with me."

His quiet voice was tinged with pain and defeat. John let go of the doorknob and took a step closer to the bed. "Are you serious? Because that would mean that _you_ – the man who has scorned all emotion, sentiment and every aspect of romance – are admitting to having just those things! It's a lot easier for me to believe that the only reason you would _ever_ do this is to experiment with human emotions for future reference in cases where the motive was personal."

Slowly, Sherlock lifted and turned his head to look at John. The expression on his pale face and in his light eyes was clear: _I am clever but not cruel._

John read it loud and clear. "Oh…" he said, his eyes widening slightly as he realized that Sherlock really was serious. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes; he really was sincere! _Well, I'll be…_

After shaking his head slightly, he asked, "Well…why were you adamant that I come along?"

Sherlock turned back around, his head falling like a great weight upon his pillow again. His answer was a mumble that John could not quite make out.

"A little louder, please?" said John, leaning in a bit to hear Sherlock more clearly.

And he did. "In case I needed your…advice."

"My advice…" said John, not quite believing it. When he did, John realized out loud: "Because I have more…experience and knowledge in this area?"

Sherlock's silence expressed the affirmative.

John heaved a deep sigh and wiped a hand over his face. He walked to the door and opened it fully. Before closing the door behind Sherlock, he looked at his friend and said, "Well, mate, I wish you had told me from the start, then the both of you could have been saved a _lot _of pain. But as it is…you have no sympathy from me now. You've no one to blame but yourself."

With that, John shut the door and left Sherlock alone.

* * *

As six p.m. announced itself across London, Molly Hooper found herself lying like a dead weight across her sofa. With what little strength he had, she stroked her tabby lying beside her with one hand while the other twirled a full glass of red wine before her eyes.

Her afternoon could only be described as draining. After walking all the way home from Kensington Gardens, she had spent a good hour and a half crying all of the tears she could cry out into her pillow. Then she had changed into a running suit and jogged as many streets of London as her body could handle. After coming back to her flat, she had taken a long, hot bath to soothe her aching muscles and soul.

Now, as she lay on her sofa in complete fatigue, the soft growling of her stomach told her that she should make herself some dinner. But the thought of cooking something and the effort it would take did little to get her off the sofa. However, cooking _would _provide her with something to do, a distraction from her melancholy and thoughts. So, after gently putting the cat on the floor, she got herself up from the sofa (which was quite an effort) and made her way to the kitchen.

But before she could open the refrigerator to browse, there was a knocking on her door. She froze, immediately afraid of who it might be, like a certain detective come to berate her for what had happened in the park. But the knock didn't sound like him; his knocks were always loud, insistent, and crisp. The knocks she heard now were gentle but firm. So, forcing herself to breathe normally – and glad she was not in her robe but her favorite sweats – Molly set her glass down, walked to her front door, and peeped through the peephole.

The young pathologist breathed a huge sigh of relief before opening the door. There stood John, who was holding up a bag of takeout from her favorite Chinese restaurant down the road. "You'd be an idiot if you thought I wasn't going to come and see how you were, as well as give you as much of a standing ovation as I can."

Molly gave a watery chuckle, and gladly welcomed the firm, comforting hug that John gave her.

As far as she was concerned, in that moment, nothing about good friendship was overrated or unwelcome.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Takeout Remedy**

John and Molly were each sitting in a corner of her couch, eating their takeout and watching a BBC costume drama they had found flipping through the channels. Molly couldn't deny she was a sucker for them, and so, as it turned out, was John. This was one of the many things she had learned about him during Sherlock's absence when they had become friends. Mary had told her she suspected John liked period dramas because they showed a time when decency and moral conduct were so central and vital in every day life. John himself was an old soul, and both women could see him in that world easily.

The period drama playing now – _Parade's End_ – took place during WWI; very subtle in places but still very good. Molly and John watched the final scene in a beautiful meadow, as the main character dryly sobbed against his horse's neck.

"The poor man…" said Molly, shaking her head a bit.

"Well, he's married to a heartless slut," said John bluntly.

Molly chuckled dryly. "She really _is _a witch. And the worst part is that his principles for which he stands for will forever keep him from happiness with the woman he really loves."

"Yeah, and he knows it, too," said John, cocking his head a bit as he looked at the lean, elegant figure on the screen. "You know," he said, speaking more to himself than Molly. "If you made his hair black and lengthened it a bit, he'd be the spitting image of –"

At lightning speed, Molly picked up the clicker by her side and turned the TV off. John laughed, and Molly cracked a smile. "Thanks, John," she joked dryly. "And I _really liked _this one."

"I'm sorry," said John, still laughing and throwing up his hands in surrender. Once silence had taken over again, both sensed it was a heavy one that promised to be broken with heavier conversation. They hadn't yet spoken of all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, but both knew that it needed to be done. Not even good takeout and TV couldn't cure the pain of what had happened; it could only help ease it if it went with a heart-to-heart talk.

Deciding to save John the monumental task of starting the conversation by asking an uncomfortable question, she started from the beginning. "Since my mid-twenties, my periods have been…pretty brutal. I know you're not a female, but you have a sister and a girlfriend, so you'll at least know a bit of what I'm talking about. Up until recently, I kept them under control with lots of pain medication. But in the past few months, they were worse than before, and last month…I passed out from the pain."

John's eyes widened. "You…literally lost consciousness?" Though he was a doctor, his area of expertise was war wounds – the exact opposite of this field.

Molly nodded. "Thankfully, I was alone in the morgue when it happened and no one saw me. Once I woke up and found out what happened, I made appointment with Susan, whom I've run into in the hospital many times, always friendly, knowing she would be able to help me."

John opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but Molly answered before he could ask: "You and Sherlock were in Scotland at the time, working on that case you titled 'The Copper Britches' on your blog."

"Ah," said John. He then waited for Molly to continue.

Molly gave one of her own. "Well, either way…I had my appointment with Susan yesterday afternoon…and was diagnosed with endometriosis…or, in other words, if I'm not infertile, I'm the closest thing to it."

Molly spoke in a hollow, calm voice, but the tear that fell down her cheek betrayed her heartbreak. "Oh, Molly…" said John on a sigh. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm…I'm so sad for you."

To his relief, Molly gave him a small, but genuine, smile. "Thank you for not saying you're sorry. I don't think I could have handled that." She wiped her cheek and patted John's hand on her shoulder before continuing. "The news, it…just sent me reeling. I immediately asked Mike if I could take a personal day, and thankfully it wasn't a problem. I needed to process everything, face my life, and try to decide what I really wanted out of it…now that I know what I can't have."

For a moment, John was surprised that Molly was not sobbing at this point. But looking more closely at her, John could feel – with a sinking heart – that she had already cried out all of her tears. And it was true: she just didn't have the energy left to do that again. Wanting to lighten the mood a bit, John asked, "You're a fellow Pan Fan then?"

Molly managed to smile. "Oh, always. It was Dad's favorite, and he loved to read it to me. Took me to see the play when I was about…seven years old, when it was playing in the West End. I still remember it very clearly…And whenever I'd had a bad day, he would take me to the statue in Kensington Gardens. I've always loved to look at it, and I'd let my imagination just run wild until I felt better."

John nodded in understanding. "You must have mentioned that to you-know-who at some point, and that's how he found you."

Molly rolled her eyes and picked at what remained of her rice with her chopsticks. "Or he recalls the picture I have of me with my father at that statue, and the prominent place it has on my bedside table, and come to the conclusion that it was a highly _sentimental _place for me." She said the word in the way that Sherlock would say it.

John could think of no suitable reply to this, because it was most likely true.

Molly turned her head to look at him, and asked, "What the hell did he want with me today? Or was he merely angry that I was not where I was supposed to be?" She ended in a biting tone.

John sighed and turned his head to look at the carpet as he rubbed the back of his neck. He was torn now about what to say. This would have been a lot easier if Sherlock hadn't told him his true reasons for his actions. But as it was…after a moment of contemplation, John decided to tell Molly all he knew. She deserved it, and he was still feeling no mercy for Sherlock.

So, he said it as gently as he could: "He didn't tell me until after I brought him back to Baker Street…He said that he was looking for you…so he could ask you out on a date."

Molly's eyebrows shot up, her brown eyes widened, and the color in her face drained. "Pardon me?"

John nodded. "I know it sounds unbelievable, but…that's what he told me. And believe me, I grilled him, and…I think he was serious: he really wanted to ask you out."

Molly's eyes closed and began to shake her head, as if she were trying to clear away something clogging her mind. She stopped herself, put her fingers to her temples, and looked at John again. "Start at the beginning – please tell me everything that happened today."

John immediately obliged, telling her all that had happened from his point of view from waking up: Sherlock making him tea, asking for shirt advice, finding Molly's fill-in at the morgue, finding out her phone was off, him breaking into her flat, Sherlock going into his mind palace in order to find her, and finally what had happened after Molly had given Sherlock what he'd deserved.

"…So, after I spoke to him, I left him in his room, worked my afternoon shift at the surgery, picked up takeout and came here. Haven't seen or heard from him since."

Molly had listened to all of this in silence, her eyes fixed on John and her hands clenched in her lap. When he'd finished, however, her eyes narrowed and turned in the direction of her bedroom. "Be right back," she muttered as she got off the couch and headed into that room. John occupied himself with eating one of the scones Molly had laid out with the tea following their takeout.

A minute later, she came back holding her phone in one hand. As she sat back down and began turning on her phone, she explained, "He came in through my fire escape once."

"Ah," said John, who would have punched Sherlock down said fire escape if Sherlock had done just that and eavesdropped on their conversation.

"I haven't checked my phone all day," said Molly. "I just…didn't want to talk to anybody…before or…_especially _after…" The phone lit up, and Molly's eyes widened again as she saw her text inbox. "Good Lord!" she breathed as she scrolled through each of Sherlock's brief, urgent texts.

"Yep," said John, nodding. "Did he…text you _after _the…"

Looking at her most recent texts, Molly shook her head. "Nothing after…I don't know how to feel about that."

"Feel good," said John encouragingly. "Just imagine how it would feel if he tried to apologize for what happened through a text message."

"I'm pleasantly surprised he hasn't," said Molly. "But, then again, the day isn't over yet…"

At that moment, a loud and brisk knock came from Molly's front door. Molly froze and became as white as a sheet; John could only mutter, "Well, you're right about that…"

* * *

**A/N: **_Dun dun DUN! Who, oh who, could that be? Hope you caught the cameo I threw in there. Anyone who's seen _Parade's End_ knows who plays the main character in that. ;)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: When a Holmes Comes to Call**

"Please, can you answer the door?" said Molly, in a voice similar to that of a mouse. "I _can't_ see him now."

John nodded and got up from the sofa. "I'll knock him out if I have to, Molly," he said before walking to the front door, which she couldn't see from her place on the couch. She held her breath, wishing she had Toby in her lap, whose purring would have calmed her somewhat.

She heard the door open and some muffled conversation. Molly couldn't make out the words, but she sensed immediately that the voice whom John was speaking to was _not _Sherlock.

But it _was _a Holmes.

In the next moment, John was coming back into the living room followed by the lean, elegant figure that was Mycroft Holmes, using his umbrella like the most elegant walking stick.

"Oh, Mycroft!" said Molly, putting a hand to her heart in absolute relief. "I'm so happy it's you."

Mycroft gave a pleased smirk. Both John and Molly wondered if anybody had ever said that to him before. "And not my darling brother," he finished for her. "Quite understandable."

"You saw the whole thing, then," said John, no question in his statement.

"Of course," said Mycroft casually.

Molly had never felt completely at ease in Mycroft's company, from the first time she had met him at Christmas in the morgue to the few times he would see his brother while Sherlock stayed in her flat. He always had an air of condescension about him when speaking to anybody, even more than Sherlock. _Only his elder brother,_ Molly would think. So, to ease her discomfort, she asked politely, "May I pour you a cup of tea, Mycroft?"

"No, thank you," he said as he reached down for a scone. He bit into one and immediately gave a genuine smile instead of a smirk. "You always have such _excellent _pastries, Dr. Hooper. You could give my pastry chef a run for his money."

Molly smiled at the compliment, the ice broken, while John looked quite surprised. He'd never seen this side of Mycroft before: the side that had a sweet tooth as big as any little boy.

When Mycroft had finished his raspberry scone, he indicated for Molly to stand up, which she did. "Dr. Hooper, I wish that we were twenty-five years back in time, when I could still apologize for my little brother. I'm sure that Dr. Watson would too, if he could. If it would help you, I can arrange for my brother to work on a case overseas that would keep him occupied for a week or so. I wish I could promise more time, but even I can only do so much when it comes to my darling brother."

There was no condescension in Mycroft's tone for once; there was only genuine apology. Very gratefully, Molly held out a hand for him to take, which he did. "I would be very grateful for that, Mycroft, thank you." She turned her gaze to John. "But only if _you_ wouldn't mind –"

"No, of course I don't!" said John. "It'll be easier to keep him from making any more stupid mistakes with you if he's on the continent somewhere."

"Then I gratefully accept your offer," said Molly, looking back at the elder Holmes.

"Though my brother and I do not always…get along…I shall always be concerned for his welfare. You, Dr. Hooper, have done so much for him and therefore me, so this can only be a small way of repaying my deep gratitude."

"Well, just for that," said Molly with a smile. "I'll pack up the rest of these scones for you to take home."

"Excellent!" said Mycroft with glee, and John couldn't help but chuckle. As Molly wrapped the plate up, Mycroft said, "Incidentally, I must thank you in person, Dr. Hooper, for giving me the best laugh I've had in years. I don't think I've laughed so hard since our childhood, when my seven-year-old brother decided it would be a good idea to test the effects of caffeine by drinking two whole pots with breakfast."

John and Molly burst out laughing, the images of such an incident more hilarious than the last. It took some time for the three of them to compose themselves. After Molly had handed the wrapped plate to Mycroft, he said to John, " Dr. Watson, I'd be happy to give you a ride back to Baker Street if you're leaving now. I'd like to stop there anyway to…check on his condition."

John snorted, and looked at Molly. "Give me a few minutes, then?"

Mycroft nodded and, after smiling at Molly one last time, walked out of the apartment. John stepped up to Molly. "I may not see you for a while, so…are you going to be all right, really?"

Molly nodded, but then pinched the bridge of her nose in thought and frustration. "This is all still so confusing, though…why now? What has made him change his mind? And how, _how _could he…after all we've been through…"

John bit his lip, and knew he couldn't leave her in this state. He hadn't seen her look this distressed since…then it came to him. "You remember what happened at the Christmas party?"

Molly lowered her hand and met his gaze. "How could I forget?" she said dryly.

"Well…you know what made him go off like that, right? I forced him throw a party, he hates the holidays in general, he didn't like my date, the Irene Adler thing had messed with his mind, and…crazy as this sounds, I think he thought he was _helping _you…The only problem was he didn't know…"

"…It was him," Molly concluded, nodding.

"So, just like then…I'm not trying to make excuses for him, by any means. He deserved what you gave him. I just want to help make sense of all this. I'm _sure_…his intention was not to hurt you."

Molly couldn't help but smile at John. Even when he was enraged at his best friend, Sherlock was still his best friend and that loyalty was still there.

After a minute of silence, Molly replied in all seriousness: "This time…it's going to take a hell of a lot more than nine words and a kiss on the cheek for Sherlock to get my forgiveness, let alone…" Molly closed her eyes and shook her head a bit. "He's a lot like Peter Pan in some ways…so extraordinary but still such a child…" Molly opened her eyes and gave him a soft smile. "Thank you for everything, John. Truly."

They shared a tight hug, like two comrades in arms. For, in a way, they were: what else could you call people who put up with Sherlock Holmes for that long?

John kissed her forehead and then left Molly with a wave. Once the door shut behind him, Molly went back to her couch (where Toby had now curled up), put him on her lap, and turned on the television, not quite ready to begin the heavy process of processing all that she had learned from John's visit.

_Parade's End _was still on – apparently it was a marathon – and Molly watched for a bit longer – even though the main character _did _resemble you-know-who in a lot of ways. At the end of the second episode, Molly completely empathized with the young woman he loved when she said, in such a heartbroken way, "_Why…why didn't you kiss me then? Why didn't you?_"

But, in her heart, the question was: _Why now? What has changed you? We've been in such a good place after we've come so far…How could you hurt me like this _now?


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: To Be A Mother**

"Woo-hoo!"

Martha Hudson always made this customary call of announcement whenever she came up to check on, whom she lovingly called, "her boys." She called it as she opened and knocked on the front door. She could immediately see that John was out, for it was too early for him to be in bed, and she found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, his face to the back cushions.

"You two have another domestic?" asked Mrs. Hudson with a small smile as she placed a Tesco bag on the kitchen table. She always liked to make sure that John had something edible at his disposal, being Sherlock's flat mate and all.

The only response she received was silence. He didn't even move. Right away, Mrs. Hudson became worried. If Sherlock were bored, he would be restless even if he were lying down. If he was annoyed with John after a domestic, he would have snapped at her not to ask obvious questions. If he had been asleep, he would have woken up at the sound of her 'woo-hoo!' and been _very _grumpy. If he were on a case, he would be out of the flat or in his mind palace – and if the latter were the case, he would not be curled up but either lying on his back or sitting in a chair with his hands pressed together in his 'thinking pose.'

That meant there were only two conclusions possible: Sherlock was either sick or hurt in some way. "What is it, Sherlock? What's wrong?" she asked in a mother's voice, approaching him without fear. She knew her place and value in Sherlock's life, and never questioned it either.

When she stopped at the couch, Sherlock turned so he lay on his back, slowly and wincing as he did. "What's happened, Sherlock?" she asked in worry, putting her hand to his forehead but thankfully felt no fever.

Sherlock did nothing to stop her motherly worrying or touches. "Only what I had coming, Mrs. Hudson, nothing to give yourself a soother for." Then, Sherlock opened his eyes completely and looked at the elderly woman as if for the first time. "Mrs. Hudson, _you're _a woman."

"Yes, I am," she responded in a matter-of-fact way to his matter-of-fact observation.

"Take a seat," he said, remembering to add a "please" after a moment. Mrs. Hudson seated herself in John's usual seat and waited for Sherlock to speak.

It took him a few minutes to formulate the words he wanted. "Mrs. Hudson, why did you never have children?"

Mrs. Hudson took no offense to this very personal question, God bless her; after all, she knew Sherlock very well, and loved him too. "Well, you know I worked as a nanny for many years, dear. All my energy was spent looking after and loving those little ones. Also, the last person I would ever want to have children with would be my husband."

Sherlock nodded in comprehension before putting forth another carefully worded question. "Say you were still relatively young, and you were given the news that you could no longer bear children…How would that make you feel?"

A grave look came over Mrs. Hudson's usually pleasant face. It took her a moment of silence before she answered seriously. "Incredibly sad, and more than a bit angry."

Sherlock did not hide his confusion from his expression or tone. "I don't understand. If you never planned on having any of your own –"

"That's not the point, dear," she said gently, patiently, as if she were speaking to a kindergartener. "To be able to bring life into the world, to bear a child, to be a mother…it's something that truly distinguishes a woman from a man, something so inherent that every woman should, in a perfect world, be able to have without question or complications. It's both our privilege and our right, as women, and a great gift and honor if bestowed. Unfortunately, this isn't a perfect world, or even a fair one."

She got a little choked up, so she cleared her throat and looked back at Sherlock, and became worried again. His frozen face was very pale now, this lips pressed in a thin line and his bright eyes even brighter than usual. "Sherlock, why are you asking me this?"

It was a good few minutes before Sherlock spoke, and when he did, his voice was deep and even hoarse. "I…hurt a woman. A woman who just found out…she's lost that…gift."

Mrs. Hudson gave a silent gasp at this knowledge. Her Sherlock was different, odd, a genius, not the best with people, but…cruel? She'd only ever seen him be cruel once, and that had been unintentional. At the Christmas Party…to Molly. The lovely young doctor who had come to see her twice a week for tea without fail ever since The Fall and even after Sherlock's return. The woman Mrs. Hudson had grown to love as a daughter, just as she loved John and Sherlock as sons. The woman whom she could often see having a very difficult time of it during her time of the month. The woman who loved Sherlock so unconditionally and who Sherlock…

Mrs. Hudson gave a real gasp now, put a hand to her heart, and said tearfully, "Oh, my poor dears! I'm so glad I have tea with her tomorrow, she'll need all the love and support she can have."

Sherlock looked at Mrs. Hudson in pure shock. "How did you–?"

Mrs. Hudson cut him off with a laugh, got up gingerly (mindful of her hip) from John's chair, and walked over to Sherlock until she stood over his horizontal form. "My dear boy, who else could be so dear to you?"

Then Sherlock's face changed, and he looked no older than a frightened and shaken five-year-old boy. "I didn't mean to hurt –"

"I know you didn't," said Mrs. Hudson, who reached down to stroke Sherlock's unruly curls in a motherly gesture. "Not because you said so, but because I know _you_, Sherlock Holmes. And so does she…so, eventually, given time and healing, she'll realize it, too."

With a smile, she bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead. He closed his eyes at the gesture and had no desire to object whatsoever. She then made her way to the door, but stopped before opening it. She turned to Sherlock with a very stern look. "But that _doesn't _mean you shouldn't apologize, young man! Considering what that poor girl is going through, grovel and beg if you have to, Sherlock Holmes." She opened the door and, just before closing it behind her, gave Sherlock a reassuring smile and said, "I know you can do it!"

* * *

It had begun to rain during the ride back to Baker Street. So Mycroft's umbrella came in handy when they got out of the car and into the building in Baker Street. Once the door was shut to the rain, they found themselves face to face with Mrs. Hudson, who was just coming down the stairs leading up to 221B. "Hello, dears!" she said. "I've just left a bag from Tesco in the kitchen for you, John."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said John gratefully.

"And," she said, turning to look at Mycroft as well as John. "I just had a chat with your little brother. I know you two want to tear him to pieces, but I should warn you: he's already drowning in guilt about how he hurt our darling Molly."

John raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock…did he _tell _you what…"

"No, I figured out the basic situation," said Mrs. Hudson, casually walking past them to her own flat.

"Really…?" said Mycroft, more astonished than condescending.

Before shutting the door to her own flat, she looked Mycroft Holmes in the eye and said, in all seriousness, "I don't need to be a member of the Holmes family tree to know that two and two is four."

And with that, she shut her door with a satisfied _click!_

* * *

**A/N: **_:D I just love Mrs. Hudson; hadn't originally planned for her to be in this story, but I figured that, as Sherlock's mother figure whom he genuinely loves, there would be no better person to really hit home for him the seriousness of what he'd done. Plus, I just love her!_

_Fun fact: Una Stubbs (who plays Mrs. Hudson) knew Benedict since he was very tiny, because she acted with his mother. So that makes Sherlock's relationship to Mrs. Hudson all the more genuine. I just LOVE that!_

_You all are so kind to me – keep the reviews coming please!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Brotherly Love**

John and Mycroft entered 221B to find the resident two-year-old in a thirty-two-year-old's body lying on the couch, on his back with his eyes closed. A little too peacefully for either gentleman's liking.

"Hello, brother dear!" exclaimed Mycroft, his voice overly pleasant but with no smile on his face. "And how are you?"

Sherlock's expression immediately went from peaceful to a sickened pout, and he turned on his side, facing away from Mycroft – even though moving so quickly caused him to hiss in pain.

"Well, that answers _that _question," said Mycroft, stepping up to his brother who refused to turn around.

"John already gave me a lecture, Mycroft," snapped Sherlock.

"_You_ could never have _enough_ lectures thrown at you," said John as he went into the kitchen to examine the bag Mrs. Hudson had left for him.

"So, you've certainly had an eventful day, haven't you?" said Mycroft, speaking like a disappointed parent to a naughty toddler.

Sherlock just pouted silently.

"Well, brother, I have found a case for you in Prague that should keep you and your comrade busy for a while," said Mycroft, pulling out his phone. "Your flight has been arranged for early tomorrow morning, and I'm sending both of you the details. You'll enjoy it, I imagine: it's a serial killer who preys on policemen! They'll be at your mercy, just the way you like them."

"This hardly sounds like a punishment, Mycroft," grumbled Sherlock. "Why so eager to get me out of the country?"

"Because Dr. Hooper told me she would prefer you stay away from her right now," was the frank reply. "I offered to give you a long distraction far away, and she said she would greatly appreciate that."

Silence reigned in the flat for a good two minutes. Both Mycroft and John stood still, waiting for Sherlock's response to that. When he did respond, his voice was quiet and low. "We'll be on the plane when it takes off."

Mycroft looked at the figure of his brother, curled up and facing away from him, and shook his head. "Honestly, little brother…I've been waiting for you to finally do something about your feelings for Dr. Hooper since she sheltered you during your period of hiding. While it doesn't surprise me that it took you this long, it certainly surprises me that you made such a _stupid _and _cruel _display in your attempt to win her affections."

Sherlock lifted and turned his head to finally look at his older brother, who was heading for the door. "You are the one who always said that caring is always a weakness, and would never benefit or help in anything. So why are you not objecting to this at all?"

Mycroft opened the door and paused, his hand on the doorframe and absently twirling his umbrella with the other for a moment before answering, making eye contact with Sherlock. "It's true, that is a rule we have lived by all of our lives, and in our lines of work, it is a very good one…However, for each rule there is always an exception. And if Molly Hooper has proven to be anything in your life, little brother, it is an exception."

He said the last word as if it were the greatest description one could give a person. With a nod to John, Mycroft left and shut the door.

* * *

Silence reigned in the flat for a while after that. John made himself a cup of tea, and settled in his armchair with the latest medical journal. He completely ignored Sherlock, who still lay curled up on the sofa in silence. Some time later, Sherlock's mobile gave a ring, signaling he got a new message. "John –"

"Get it yourself," interrupted John immediately, not looking up from the article he was engrossed in.

Sherlock huffed, and gingerly got himself up from the sofa and retrieved his phone from the kitchen table, his feet dragging as he went. He opened the message, and his jaw clenched. A minute later, he asked in a quiet, serious voice, "How is she, John?"

This time, John _did _look up from his article to find that Sherlock was looking at him really wanting an answer, even if only his eyes gave that away. "Considering the hurricane of emotions she's going through, she's staying strong. She knows that she has the support of her friends and that we'll do everything we can to help her through this. And because she deserved to know, I told her everything I witnessed and learned from you today. More than anything, she's confused and more than a little upset and hurt."

Upon hearing that John had told Molly his reasons behind seeking her out today, he'd sent a death glare in John's direction. But it wilted after a few seconds under John unashamed and firm stare, knowing that the medical doctor was the one in the right. Looking back at his phone, Sherlock knew that he needed to view the complete message in private. So he carefully treaded to his bedroom and paused before entering. His next words shocked, but pleased, his friend.

"Thank you for going to her when I couldn't."

Sherlock then shut himself in his room and laid down on his bed, not bothering to remove his signature blue dressing gown. The message he had received was from Mycroft, consisting of a few words and a video file.

The words were few but to the point: _So you will never make this mistake again._

The video had come from Mycroft's surveillance system, which of course had recorded the whole incident in Kensington Gardens. This particular camera had focused entirely on Molly throughout Sherlock's horrible tirade and her subsequent reaction.

As it had happened, Sherlock had been so blinded by his frustration and nerves that he hadn't really noticed Molly's reactions to his words until John had stopped him. Now, he watched – in impeccable HD – Molly being hit by his words. How her face became drained of color, how her hands clenched the bench beneath her, how her jaw tightened, how her lip trembled, how her eyes burned with tears and hurt…

It only took one viewing for it to become permanently branded in Sherlock's memory, but that night he watched it a total of fifty-three times.

Each time was a little bit more hard to watch than the next.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Barrie Allegories**

As Molly chatted with Mrs. Hudson in 221A Baker Street, her cell phone gave out the standard mamba ringtone that indicated an incoming call. She looked apologetically at Mrs. Hudson, but the older woman just smiled and got up from her chair. "You get that, love, the water should be ready to boil by now."

As she shuffled into her quaint kitchen, Molly pulled out her phone and looked at the caller ID. Seeing that it was John, Molly took a deep breath and answered the call. "Hello, John."

"Hey, Molly. How are you doing?"

"Just fair," replied Molly honestly. "No complaints or complications. There's a kind of blessing in knowing what's wrong, no matter how bad. At least then you know what monster you're fighting, you know?"

"I hear you, Molls. And you're…are you on any medication or anything? I don't mean to pry, I'm just being a concerned friend." John's voice was kind and genuine.

Molly smiled at how good of a man John Watson was. "Just during my time, and it does truly help. And Mrs. Hudson has been a true blessing. I'm actually with her now for tea."

"Good. Well, I wanted to let you know that the case is solved and done with. We'll be back in London late tonight."

Molly sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She had known this was coming, had known this was coming when she saw John's name on her phone. "I'm honestly surprised it took as long as two weeks, John."

John gave a dry chuckle. "It was one of the more complicated and challenging ones, that's for sure. It'll be a long one to type up, but that's all right."

"It'll be worth it," said Molly. "You do such a good job, no matter what your flat mate says."

"Thanks, Molly," he said, and then he chuckled.

"What?" asked Molly.

"I'm just browsing at a secondhand book kiosk at the airport here, and I've come across an old copy of _Peter Pan._ God…I haven't read this since I was a kid. Should I get it?"

"Go for it!" said Molly with a big smile. "Although, read it when you're not pissed at your flat mate. In a lot of ways, he's just like the title character."

"Really? Well, it _has _been a while…will have to test that theory. So…if he's Peter, what would that make me?"

"Wendy, of course," she answered innocently before bursting into giggles.

"_What? _No, I will _not _be a girl! If anybody is his Wendy, it would be you."

"Oh, no. If I would be anybody, I would be his Tinkerbell, not his Wendy."

"Why?"

"Because, in his eyes, I am that small, that annoying, and that devoted."

Molly spoke calmly, as if stating a simple fact. Truth be told, this was something that she often thought about, when she had sought refuge at the Peter Pan statue when Sherlock had touched one nerve too many over the years. By now, this was just a fact that she had come to accept in how her relationship to Sherlock really was.

John paused before answering Molly's explanation. "Molly," he said, his voice low and gentle. "That may have been true once, but…Well, it's true I haven't looked at the story in a while, but I'm pretty sure there is a point when Peter realizes how much she means to him when she nearly dies."

Molly rolled her eyes. "I look forward to the day I die, then," said Molly. Feeling emotion rising in her – and realizing that Sherlock could very well be eavesdropping on their conversation if he was nearby – she cleared her throat and said, "Well, I'll let you go now John. See you soon."

"Definitely, Molly. And don't worry – I'll make sure he doesn't come near you without your say-so."

"Thanks, John. Bye."

"Bye, Molls."

* * *

Sherlock and John arrived back in London and Baker Street while the night was still young. Mrs. Hudson had tea ready for them when they arrived, for Molly had told her of their imminent return.

Close to midnight found both men in their main sitting room. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed and hands folded in his thinking posture; John sat in his armchair, engrossed in his new book.

After reading a prominent passage with Molly's words in mind, John looked up from the book and at his still flat mate. "Well, what are you going to do?"

The only thing Sherlock moved was his mouth when he answered slowly. "About what?"

"About Molly," said John bluntly. "You've had a nice, long and challenging case to solve and return your ego back to its normal planet size, and you're in top physical condition again, so now what?"

Sherlock very slowly opened his eyes, and then said softly, "I don't know…"

John couldn't help but roll his eyes and rub the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Even _you _aren't stupid enough to not know you should apologize, Sherlock –"

"Of course I know that, John!" exclaimed Sherlock, turning his head to look at his flat mate. "I just don't know _how…_"

"Well, I just hope you bear in mind that a text is nowhere near an acceptable apology method for something like this."

Sherlock's only response was a very nasty glare.

After a few minutes of tense silence, John felt his eyelids drooping, and he wanted to give Mary a call before turning in. So, he got up from his chair and said to Sherlock, whose eyes were closed again: "Look, I know that you usually scorn advice of any kind, especially from me –"

Sherlock mumbled something in interruption.

"Speak up, please."

"Not about this, I wouldn't scorn advice," spat out Sherlock, as if it pained it. "You obviously have more knowledge and experience in this area, so it wouldn't be logical for me to ignore advice about this from you."

John couldn't help but feel pleased hearing this, and committed to memory this rare moment. "Well…" said John carefully. "I'm certainly not going to tell you what to do, Sherlock. This is between you and Molly, nobody else. Figure out the complete problem in front of you, and the best way to solve it. You can do it – you _are _a genius, after all."

With that, the soldier took a step towards the stairs but stopped, looking down at the book in his hands. After a quick moment of thought, he marked a specific page and placed the book on the coffee table in front of Sherlock before wordlessly heading up to bed.

Before calling Mary, he sent a quick request to Mycroft via text. _Sherlock's going to need all the help he can get._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: What Does She Need?**

Approximately seven minutes and thirteen seconds after John's bedroom door closed, Sherlock's mobile beeped with a text alert. Sherlock groaned in annoyance that John was not still down here so he could pass him the phone.

True, it was on the coffee table, but even still…

Annoyed, Sherlock reached over and grabbed his phone. To make him even more annoyed, the text was from Mycroft. But the annoyance disappeared once he read it:

**Here is a part of the phone conversation that Dr. Watson had with Dr. Hooper just before your flight that he wanted you to listen to. Believes it will help you solve your problem. **

**MH**

Below was a link to an audio file. Extremely curious and (though it was hard to admit) eager for any help he could get in this situation, Sherlock touched the link with his thumb and listened. It started with John chuckling and Molly inquiring after it.

* * *

_"What?"_

_"I'm just browsing at a secondhand book kiosk at the airport here, and I've come across an old copy of Peter Pan…I haven't read this since I was a kid. Should I get it?"_

_"Go for it! Although, read it when you're not pissed at your flat mate. In a lot of ways, he's just like the title character."_

_"Really? Well, it has been a while…will have to test that theory. So…if he's Peter, what would that make me?"_

_"Wendy, of course."_

_"What? No, I will not be a girl! If anybody is his Wendy, it would be you."_

_"Oh, no. If I would be anybody, I would be his Tinker Bell, not his Wendy."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because, in his eyes, I am that small, that annoying, and that devoted."_

_"…Molly. That may have been true once, but…Well, it's true I haven't looked at the story in a while, but I'm pretty sure there is a point when Peter realizes how much she means to him when she nearly dies."_

_"I look forward to the day I die, then."_

* * *

The recording ended there, and Sherlock was left feeling something he did not usually feel: perplexed. While parts of the conversation amused him – such as Molly comparing John to a female – other parts only perplexed him. At first, the only thing it explained for him were the reasons John gave for buying the book and reading it on the plane: "Sentiment and research." Then he remembered that John had – obviously on purpose – put that book on the coffee table right beside him. So he reached out, grabbed it, and looked at the cover.

Looking at the illustration on the front, Sherlock was surprised to find that this story was not completely unfamiliar to him. The fact was that of course he had been read this story many times in his childhood, had even played games of it with Mycroft – hell, it was the reason he had wanted to be a pirate as a child! But what he was surprised to find was that he hadn't completely deleted all of this from his mind palace by now. There were still some fragments of that sentimental story in one of the cellar rooms of his mind palace. He thought of venturing in there, but it was so dark and dusty, and Sherlock felt too tired for such an arduous task that would deter from what he needed to solve _now_.

No, it would be better to use what was in front of him right now.

Seeing that John had marked a specific page, he flipped open the book and began to read the chapter that John had obviously intended for him to read. It was titled, "Do You Believe In Fairies?" As he read, that little room in his mind palace began to tidy up and flood with light. Characters he had once known so well became familiar again, especially the characters that Molly had compared them to. By the time Peter was about to fall into a trap set by Captain Hook, Sherlock was completely engrossed in the story.

* * *

_His hand closed on the fatal draught._

_"No!" shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as he sped through the forest._

_"Why not?"_

_"It is poisoned."_

_"Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it?"_

_"Hook."_

_"Don't be silly. How could Hook have got down here?"_

_Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the dark secret of Slightly's tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had left no room for doubt. The cup was poisoned._

_"Besides," said Peter, quite believing himself. "I never fell asleep."_

_He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one of her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught, and drained it to the dregs._

_"Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?"_

_But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air._

_"What is the matter with you?" cried Peter, suddenly afraid._

_"It was poisoned, Peter," she told him softly; "and now I am going to be dead."_

_"O Tink, did you drink it to save me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"But why, Tink?"_

_Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear, "You silly ass," and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the bed._

_His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it…_

* * *

Sherlock snapped the book shut and tossed it back onto the coffee table. Then he got up from the sofa and walked to the window, his fingers running through his hair in agitation.

_Does she truly believe that it would take her dying for me to…_

His conscience – which had a voice just like John's – responded: _Well, it did take the prospect of your own death to make you realize how much she counted._

_Shut up, it couldn't have been like that!_

But his conscience didn't respond, for it didn't need to: it knew, and Sherlock knew, that it was right.

_Why is it that, when it comes to Molly Hooper, I always do exactly the wrong thing?_

Sherlock hoped that, one day, he would discover the answer to that question. But now, he knew that he had to do nothing but the right thing.

_Define the problem, and from that discover the solution._

In the most basic way, Sherlock knew what he needed to do: apologize to Molly for what had happened – no, for what he had done. He couldn't deny or ignore the tremendous guilt he felt, and for once in his life did not try to. But he did not only want to apologize to appease his guilt…what he hoped to gain was something much more precious.

However, Sherlock was having a very hard time of finding a way of somehow getting that. Especially when Molly herself couldn't believe that he would ever look at her the way she had looked at him for so long. _And that is all _your _fault, genius._

_Shut up, John conscience!_

He let out a frustrated groan and ruffled his hair. _Damn Mycroft for always telling me caring is not an advantage. If he hadn't believed that, I would have known so much more about all of this sentimental…_

As if his powerfully connected elder brother could sense his little brother's thoughts turn to him, Sherlock's phone beeped again. With narrowed eyes, Sherlock retrieved his phone, and rolled them when he saw it was from his brother again. _He just _loves _to rub it in when I need help by offering too much._

This time, the message consisted of only a video link, with no attached message. Curious in spite of himself, Sherlock tapped the link and watched a video materialize. When it did, he froze. It was a hidden camera view (of very good quality) of Mrs. Hudson's sitting room. The time stamp indicated that this video had taken place that afternoon, around the time he and John would have been boarding their plane. Mrs. Hudson was coming back into the room with a steaming teapot, ready to fill her own cup and that of her guest in her best chair: Molly Hooper. She was just finishing up her phone call with John – the same call that Sherlock had heard a portion of…

* * *

_"Thanks, John. Bye." Molly brought her phone down from her ear and ended the call. Mrs. Hudson came back into the sitting room from her kitchen, carefully carrying a full teapot. As she poured out a cup for Molly, the younger woman said, "Your boys will be home tonight."_

_Mrs. Hudson smiled in delight. "Oh, good! It's been too quiet around here for my liking. I'll have enough time to make a Tesco run for John."_

_Molly just nodded silently before sipping her tea. The look on her face reflected great fear and great sadness. Mrs. Hudson looked at the young woman, put the kettle down, and stood behind Molly, placing her hands on her shoulders. "Don't be afraid, my dear. Sherlock knows how horribly he's behaved, and he'll apologize."_

_Molly heaved a sigh, and placed a hand over one of Mrs. Hudson's. "I'm not afraid of that…Sherlock wants to be more than friends…for so long, I wanted nothing but that…now, this is all so confusing and I don't understand…"_

_"What are you frightened of now, Molly?" asked Mrs. Hudson softly, soothingly._

_Molly wiped her eyes, and leaned her head against Mrs. Hudson's arm. It was a long minute before she spoke again, so softly and vulnerably it would touch anybody's heart. "Sherlock Holmes knows he can always count on me, and I've proved that there is nothing I wouldn't do for him if he asked and he needed my help. I'm afraid that I will forgive him too easily, and he won't try to be better. Not really, anyway. But what I'm really afraid of is that if…well, when…this gets worse," Molly placed a hand on her lower abdomen, "I don't know if I can expect the same from him. I want to so much, but I don't know…It's not wrong to want to be taken care of once and a while, is it?" Tears came from Molly's eyes now, and her voice was so small and scared._

_Mrs. Hudson raised her free hand from Molly's shoulder and gently stroked her hair. "No, love, it's most certainly not."_

* * *

The screen faded to black.

Sherlock felt like he'd been drugged; he needed to lie down. Somehow he made his way to his bedroom and fell back onto his bed dramatically.

The consulting detective felt as if his chest were both tightening and expanding at the same time; there was no other way to describe the sensation. He did not like it one bit. His mind was whirring now, processing all he had gathered this evening that had been meant to help him. And it was: the puzzle pieces were finally coming together, but it was painful.

It was painful because Sherlock was reminded very powerfully of how selfless Molly Hooper had always been with him. From sneaking him body parts, lab access, her instant forgiveness whenever he'd manipulated or hurt her…to her putting her career and life on the line to help him fake his death…sheltering him while he recovered…patching him up when he needed it…giving him comfort in his nightmares and moments of vulnerability…

What really made the sensation heighten was the fact that Molly Hooper was so selfless that, if ever faced with the decision, she would give her life for him as quickly and easily as Tinker Bell would for Peter Pan.

_She is so selfless…and I am so selfish. _Sherlock had always known he was a very selfish person, but for so long he didn't care. Now he did. Of course, the events of the Fall had changed that fact, the real question was this: could he be as selfless for Molly as she had always been for him? If he couldn't, then there was no hope at all.

It didn't take him long to find the answer: yes, he could. He would kill anybody who tried to hurt her in any way. He would do all in his power to protect her from harm. And, if faced with the decision, he would easily and quickly give his life to save hers..

Sherlock sat up on his bed in a moment of epiphany. There was no problem before him, only a question: What does she need? Specifically, what did he need to give her?

The answers fell into place so easily it was almost frightening:

An apology, a true and sincere apology for his actions, and that she see how much guilt and remorse he feels for them.

A thorough explanation and understanding of what he feels for her, how he came to his conclusions of that now, and reassurance that it was no experiment.

Reassurance that he was capable of taking care of her just as much as she had taken care of him.

To put it more simply, Molly Hooper needed to know that to him, she counted the most.

It had taken Sherlock these past six months back in the land of the living to finally accept his feelings for Molly, to reconcile himself to the fact that she was the center of his world. It had been a hard journey, but this was what he had come to, and the conclusion was unchangeable.

When Sherlock Holmes knew what he wanted – what he _needed_ – he would do all in his power to achieve it.

There would be no sleep for him tonight – he had plans to make.

* * *

**A/N: **_Ugh, I'll never feel secure when writing Sherlock's POV, but I hope you like it. T__he passage is taken directly from J.M. Barrie's _Peter Pan. _Remember it well, for it will be very important later in the story. Please review; reviews make me write faster. :D_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: A Period of Help**

John Watson was having the time of his life. Not only did his job bring satisfaction and he loved his steady girlfriend Mary, but something he had once thought impossible was happening: Sherlock Holmes was listening to him.

Well, mostly. Can't expect the sky to turn green, after all.

The morning after they had come back from abroad, John had come downstairs to find Sherlock newly invigorated and with a determined energy. He had sat John down and told him of his plans regarding earning Molly's forgiveness and – if he were lucky enough – her heart. Throughout it all, John had a smile on his face. He was very happy and very relieved that Sherlock was confiding in him, for it meant he had really learned his lesson from two weeks ago, when he _hadn't _confided in John.

Overall, John thoroughly approved of Sherlock's plan. In fact, he was surprised that Sherlock could come up with a plan that good, if only because there was sentiment in it, and quite a bit of it, too. Then again, falling for Molly Hooper probably unlocked a lot of doors inside of that mind palace of his, so John wisely kept his surprise to himself.

That's not to say that Sherlock's plan didn't need fresh eyes that John could provide. Sherlock, being a larger than life personality, could overwhelm even those who knew him the best. John knew that, if Sherlock overwhelmed Molly too much or in the wrong way, he would frighten her away forever. So he firmly put in his input and suggestions, making sure to give his valid reasons and points to support them and, to his great astonishment, Sherlock accepted them and took his opinion to heart.

And John relished in every moment of it – after all, who knew if this would ever happen again? Also, it really reassured John of Sherlock's feelings for Molly: he wouldn't put in this much effort, going so far as to ask for help and actually listen to it, if his feelings weren't genuine.

So, when their long discussion had finished, John was more than happy to play his part: keep his mouth shut about it to Molly, phone his sister with a request, and run the errand Sherlock asked him to run. This was to go to the nearest shop and get a few things: a binder, plenty of paper and a lot of pens.

* * *

"JOHN, I NEED YOU!"

The former army surgeon sighed but smiled as he got out of bed and went downstairs. Thankfully, he hadn't fallen asleep yet, even though it was a quarter past midnight. He came downstairs to find Sherlock where he'd been for the past week: on the couch, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper, a notebook on his lap and a pen in his hand.

"What is it?" asked John patiently.

"The day when Molly introduced us to Moriarty - or, Jim from IT, as we thought he was then," he spit out in disgust, "what exactly did I do wrong? You said what I did was not kind, though I was trying to be."

John thought back on the day and bit back a groan. He had been harsher than usual with her that day, causing her to run away with tears in her eyes, though she had tried to fight back. "Well, it was _how _you said it that wasn't kind, Sherlock. You had good intentions, and it was the right thing to do, but the right thing done in the wrong way…turns that thing from the right thing to the wrong thing, if you know what I mean."

Sherlock slowly nodded his head. "How should I have handled it then?" What Sherlock really meant was, _What would you have done?_

John knew it, and it made him smile. "Well, I would have spoken to her privately, just me and her, and told her in a gentle way that you thought he was gay –"

"But I didn't think, I knew –"

"I know, Sherlock," interrupted John firmly. "But we all turned out to be wrong about him, weren't we?"

Sherlock scowled before saying, "So, I should have been more…gentle and sympathetic in my delivery."

"Exactly," said John. "And instead of ordering her to break it off now and save herself the pain, you should have told her _gently _that you weren't telling her this to hurt her, but because you didn't want her to get hurt." He held up a hand when Sherlock opened his mouth. "And I _know _that's what you meant to do, Sherlock, but it didn't sound like it. In matters of the heart, the delivery method counts just as much as what's in the package."

Sherlock processed this for a minute, then nodded with a curt "thank you," and resumed writing.

John went into the kitchen. "When was the last time you've had anything?" Because Sherlock was treating this like a case – he was even refusing to take Lestrade's calls – John had to keep on him to take care of himself. Thankfully, John didn't need to remind him to give his hand a break, for Sherlock often paused to delve into his mind palace, thus giving his hand the rest it needed.

"Approximately eighteen hours ago," said Sherlock absently, not looking up from his task.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, finish up that entry and then come eat something. If phase two of your plan starts tomorrow –"

"It does, John, I know her schedules."

"You need to have all of your energy if you're really going to run around that much."

"I am."

John smiled. "Good."

* * *

_And so it begins…_

This was Molly's first thought upon waking up, and it was with a groan. Her time of the month was never a pleasant time, and, to make it even harder, this would be her first period knowing of her diagnosis. True, she would have new and more effective medication, but to Molly, they only served to remind her of what a useless life form in this universe that she was.

So it was with a heavy heart and a sour expression that she arrived at work that morning. She dearly hoped that she would not become overloaded with work during her shift, or that anybody (especially a certain consulting detective/sociopathic asshole) decided to pay her a visit. They would be very sorry if they did.

But when she arrived in her office, she was surprised to find a full cup of steaming hot coffee waiting for her. Next to it was a rose, her favorite kind at that: white, pink-tipped petals.

Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes narrowed. _What on earth…_It wasn't coffee from the canteen upstairs, either. It was from the café down the street, which instantly meant it would have better quality. Her first emotion was great suspicion. After all that had happened with "Jim from IT" and The Fall, she would be stupid not to.

Right on cue, her phone buzzed once, announcing a text. She pulled it out, and saw that it was from Mycroft:

_If it were an attempt to drug or poison you, I would not have allowed it to enter your office. Seems that this is nothing more than a random act of kindness. –MH_

Though this was a relief, this only made her confusion escalade. _Who would do this? _The coffee was still steaming – obviously it must have been put here seconds before she had arrived – so she decided take a sip. It would give her a better idea of who might have done this. So she picked up the cup, and her cautious sip soon turned into an indulgent one. Not only was the coffee of good quality, but it was made how she liked it. So, clearly, whomever was behind this knew her quite well…

Molly closed her eyes and groaned, realizing perfectly well who not only did this but in the perfect amount of time that he would get out without being seen.

Still holding the coffee, Molly went into the morgue and looked around, paying close attention to the dark corners where he sometimes lurked and caught her by complete surprise. But the morgue was empty, and she was alone. It had been a week since Sherlock and John had returned from abroad. While she still communicated with John regularly, she hadn't heard a thing from or seen Sherlock at all.

Until now, it seemed.

Looking back down at the coffee cup, Molly took a deep breath. The rich aroma from the cup calmed her nerves a bit. It really was good…

She thought of the words Mycroft had used to describe it: a random act of kindness. Surely Mycroft would have told her if this was something more, and if this was Sherlock's idea of an apology, she knew that John would have had a fit and warned her. But Sherlock and "kindness" were not two words that went together…

However, thinking of the work she still had to do today, Molly decided to just finish this very good coffee, put the rose into a cup of water until she brought it home, and not think any more about it now. In other words, just take it for what it apparently was: a completely random and confusing act of kindness.

* * *

What Molly did not expect was that it would not be the only one. Throughout the next few days, little anonymous acts of kindness kept popping up. Not enough to overwhelm her, but certainly enough for her to notice not only how thoughtful they were, but how it could be no one else but _him._

A cup of coffee awaited her the next day and the day after when she came in for her shift, and a new one would always be there when she would come back from her break.

Her meals were delivered – prepaid – to either the morgue or her apartment, each meals that she enjoyed and knew. Molly had not tried to get information from the young delivery people; she knew perfectly well who was behind this. Also, she did not want to see them delve into a panic if she started interrogated; no doubt Sherlock had threatened them under pain of death and with his deductions that they were not to tell her anything.

The most extravagant had been on the second day. Molly had not left work in a good mood. Wednesday was her day to do her grocery shopping, and she was not looking forward to the long and tedious errand. She would much rather just spend her evening cuddled on her sofa with a hot water bottle, new medication running its course, and catching up on _Downton Abbey._ To top it off, she had to stop at home first because, stupid her, she had walked to work today and left her keys at home. Imagine her surprise when she had arrived home from her shift and found three full bags of groceries right outside her apartment door. Upon taking them inside and examining the frozen items, she could see that the bags must have been dropped off within fifteen minutes of her coming home. Molly vaguely wondered why Sherlock hadn't left them in her apartment…either way, the gesture touched her very much.

But perhaps her favorite aspect of these not-so-random acts of kindness was this: with each one came a rose with white, pink-tipped petals. By the end of the three days of her period, she had a vase full of over a dozen of them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Ticket and a Pass**

When Molly came into work on Friday, her period finished, there was no cup of coffee or rose waiting for her. She couldn't help but feel let down. Seeing the absence of the kind act made her realize how much they had begun to melt away her anger. Molly desperately wanted to believe that this may only be the beginning of Sherlock's apology, but his history was against him. Hoping, which had once been so easy and second nature to her, was much harder now.

So, when the doors to the morgue opened announcing a visitor, Molly was in a gloomy mood. But upon hearing the doors, her heart began to pound. Who else would come down here but him?

But it wasn't him; it was John. Molly didn't know if she felt more relieved or disappointed. She decided to ignore her disappointment and just be happy to see a friendly face. John himself had a smile on his face, which immediately put her at ease.

"Hey, Molls," he said, giving her a one-armed hug.

"Hi, John," replied Molly cordially, returning his hug. "What brings you down to this cold, corpse-ridden morgue today?"

John chuckled. She'd gotten more at ease with things like telling jokes, now that she didn't stutter or live in Sherlock's shadow anymore. "Well," he said, still smiling. "Guess who is minding the little demons this weekend and needs your help again?"

Molly's face broke into a big grin. "Oh, really? How wonderful, it's been so long since I've seen them. Of course I will! When are they coming?"

"Harry's dropping them off tomorrow morning before she and Clara go to a spa on the Hampshire coast. They're trying to 'reconnect,' but I think it's more for the kids' sake than for their own." John shrugged, not really surprised by anything his sister did or didn't do anymore.

"So, when would you like my help?" asked Molly. "I have the graveyard shift Saturday night, so I will only want to sleep Sunday morning."

"Got it," said John, nodding and still smiling. "That's fine, because I'll need you both Saturday and Sunday afternoon."

"What are the plans?"

"Well, Sunday will just be casual. If you could just help me mind the little rugrats at the flat, I'd be very grateful."

"Help you mind them or help you protect them from the more volatile child you deal with on a daily basis?" asked Molly, with a slight smile.

John's grin widened at her second joke. "Exactly. Saturday, however, will be more exciting." With that, he pulled out a small envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Curiously, Molly opened it and pulled out what was inside: a ticket and a backstage pass.

Molly's face lit up in a happy gasp. "Oh, my goodness! I thought tickets for this were impossible to get now!"

"The word 'impossible' does not apply to such matters when one knows Mycroft Holmes," said John casually, but looking very pleased with himself. "You, me, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and the little monsters are going to the Saturday matinee, along with a special backstage tour."

"Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed Molly, giving a tiny jump in the air in excitement. "Yes, absolutely I will come!"

"Thought so," said John with a big grin. "We'll all meet at Baker Street around one and leave for the theater from there, all right?"

"Got it, see you then!" John made his way towards the exit, but then Molly stopped him by calling his name. "John? Um…will he…he isn't…"

John smiled gently at her, knowing what she was trying to find out. "He'll steer clear of the flat while you're there, Molly, if that's how you want it. As for the show…you've seen Sherlock in front of the TV, imagine how he would be in a full theater."

Both of them shuddered at such a thought and shared a laugh. John said his goodbyes, and Molly spent the rest of the shift with an excited and silly grin on her face.

* * *

When John arrived back in 221B Baker Street, he found Sherlock standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. As John shut the door, he turned his head to look at the doctor. His expression clearly asked: _How did it go?_

"No surprise that she accepted happily," said John as he hung up his jacket. "She's excited, Sherlock, really excited." He gave the consulting detective a small grin. "It should be noted that she mentioned you first – and even smiled when she did so. A small one, but it was there."

With that, John strutted into the kitchen to make himself some lunch. Sherlock turned back to the window, his eyes closed in relief and the hint of a grin on his lips.

_Perhaps this will work after all…_

* * *

**A/N: **_These chapters are pouring out of me, because this is so much fun to write! Sorry there was a long delay before, I had another story to finish. Keep on the alert, I'm not stopping! Review please!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: When There's a Smile in Your Heart**

Molly decided that, since she would be with John's niece and nephew, it was a matinee, and there would probably be more children than adults there, she didn't need to be very fancy. So she chose a pair of comfortable skinny jeans of dark denim, and her favorite summer top: an airy white blouse embroidered with blue swirls and flowers along the borders. As for shoes, she slipped on her silver ballerina flats – for a special reason that made her smile. Her long, thick hair she braided in a French braid to keep out of the way. She only put on a touch of make-up, and decided to wear her favorite jewelry too: a matching necklace and earring set, platinum with white sapphires. Nothing elaborate, just post-earrings and a single pendant for the necklace, but they had been a gift from her father when she'd graduated from uni. Anyone who saw the gems would think they were diamonds, but Molly liked having that kind of secret knowledge, even if only in a small way.

Once satisfied with herself, Molly grabbed her purse and kissed Toby goodbye with an excited smile and spring in her step. She didn't bother with a coat, since it was now July and quite warm outside.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door when she arrived at Baker Street. "Hello, my dear!" she exclaimed, and they embraced. "Don't you look lovely!"

"So do you," replied Molly, and she meant it. Mrs. Hudson was all ready for a matinee, in a modest but flattering purple dress. "Are you as excited as I am?"

"Oh, very! It's been so long since I've been to a show. Why don't you go upstairs? I'll be ready when you all come down."

Molly did as she asked, and knocked on the door to 221B after practically skipping up the stairs. She could hear excited voices behind the door. When the door opened, there stood Mary Morstan. She and Molly had known each other for some years as friendly acquaintances in the hospital. Molly being a pathologist and Mary being a pediatric nurse, they never interacted professionally, but they passed each other in the halls a lot and often had lunch together in the canteen. John and Mary had been seeing each other exclusively for close to nine months now, and Molly knew it was only a matter of time before John proposed. They really were a perfect match, complementing each other perfectly.

"Hi, Molly!" exclaimed Mary, and pulled her in for a hug. The pretty blonde wore a pretty green summer dress and light white cardigan. Molly internally wished she had chosen something like that to wear, but didn't let it ruin her excitement at all.

"Mary, I'm glad you're coming, too!" said Molly sincerely. "I'm sure you've found out by now that poor John needs all the help he can get?"

Mary laughed, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. She walked to the stairs that led up to John's room and called, "Your Auntie Molly's here! Come and get her!"

The door to John's room burst open, and down the stairs came John's nephew and niece. First came the seven-year-old nephew, shooting down the stairs like the burst of pure, happy energy he was, right into Molly's open arms while nearly shouting her name.

"Benny! Oh, you've gotten so big!" she exclaimed, twirling him around before setting him back down on the ground. She couldn't resist ruffling his blonde curls. "Are you excited?"

His grey eyes sparkled. "Oh, I can't wait!" said Benny, jumping up and down on the spot before beginning to pace, holding his beloved Buzz Lightyear toy to him. "We're going to see the pirates, and Captain Hook, and the Indians, and the lost boys, and the…"

As Benny continued on his excited ramblings, Molly looked to his little sister that had followed her big brother down the stairs. Molly grinned and reached out her arms to the five-year-old, who immediately went into them for a tight hug. "Hi, Loo," murmured Molly, stroking the girl's dark red hair. "It's great to see you again."

"I missed you, Auntie Molly," she said in her little voice as she looked at her with her doe eyes.

"I missed you too, sweetheart," said Molly, kissing the little one's head as she saw John coming down the stairs. He was smiling at the sight of them.

"Glad you're here, Molls," said John, kissing her cheek in welcome. He then turned to his nephew. "Calm down, Ben, we'll get going in just a minute. You know you can't take Buzz with you, right?"

Benny pouted adorably at his uncle. "Oh, Uncle John, _please_? If Loo can take her blankie, why can't I take my Buzz?"

"Because Buzz makes noise everywhere you touch him, and Loo's blankie does not."

As John and his nephew engaged in the debate, Molly set Loo down and looked at her. She was wearing a pretty summer dress with a print of pink flowers and green leaves. In her arms, she clutched her baby-blue blanket. "You look so pretty, Loo," said Molly, who's smile widened when she saw the silver ballerina flats that Loo was wearing. "So you found a pair?"

"Mommy got them for my birthday," said Loo, smiling. "I said I wanted a pair just like yours." The little girl smiled at Molly's shoes. "You wore them today!"

"Of course I did, they're your favorite!" said Molly.

Mary, who had left the flat once Molly arrived to hail a cab, arrived at the door again. "Cab's here and Mrs. Hudson is all ready. Are we?"

"I think so," said John, who had succeeded in persuading his nephew to leave Buzz Lightyear behind. He took Benny's hand, while Molly took Loo's.

Molly grinned at everyone. "Let's go to Neverland, then."

* * *

The only word to describe the group's experience in the theatre that afternoon was truly magical.

A new revival of the classic J. M. Barrie play had been up and running for two months now, with sold-out tickets for the upcoming six months at least. So the tickets and passes Mycroft had gotten them was a real treat. True to the wishes of the late author, every performance reserved twenty-five seats for children who were sick or orphaned. This made the audience all the more enraptured, endearing, and responsive.

The Baker Street group enjoyed the show just as much as the rest of the audience, if not more. Mrs. Hudson had a smile on her face and tears in her eyes the entire time. Having seen hellish things abroad during his service and his adventures with Sherlock, it was a blessing to John that he could still find joy and pleasure in something so pure and fun. He too had a grin on his face, Mary's hand in his and her head on his shoulder. Benny could barely stay in his seat, especially when the pirates were on the stage. Loo's eyes were as wide as coins the entire time, and when Peter Pan asked, "Do you believe in fairies?" she was the first to clap.

Molly was the happiest of them all. She was taken right back to her childhood, to the world her father had introduced her to through the book, the animated movie, and the stage play she saw when she was no bigger than Benny. She shed a tear more than once. Even though she knew it was foolish – that he would never sit still, be silent or try to understand something so trivial – Molly couldn't help but wish that Sherlock were with her.

After all, she was with nearly all of the people she loved watching her favorite story. Sherlock being there would just make it perfect.

* * *

As wonderful as the show was, perhaps the most precious and wonderful part came after the curtain had gone down.

After the actors had taken their bows and the audience had left the theater, the Baker Street group were led backstage (with the help of their passes) and given a special tour. The children enjoyed it the most, especially when they got to roam the stage and explore the set pieces and props.

"Benedict Martin, get down from there now!" scolded John, who had just spotted his nephew climbing a bit too high on the pirate ship. "Stay on the deck, or you're coming off for good."

Clothed in Captain Hook's hat and a pirate vest, Benny pouted, but followed his uncle's order. Loo, who was holding Molly's hand and had pixie dust in her hair, giggled at her brother's antics. Molly, too, was smiling. She couldn't blame Benny at all. Though her disposition was closer to that of Loo's at that age, Molly couldn't help but feel that she would be just as excited as Benny was now.

Their guide, Timothy, merely chuckled. He was the stage manager, and had been working in the theater for over twenty years. He was more than used to children on tours. "Well, everyone has to get set up for the show tonight pretty soon, but there is time to do one more thing." He looked up and waved his hand. Down came what looked like a harness on thin but strong wires someone would get into.

"Oh, so this is the secret to how he flies?" asked Molly.

Tim smiled. "More like pixie dust's biggest helper." He took the harness in his hands and offered it to her. "Want to give it a go?"

Molly's eyes widened and she quietly gasped. She looked at Tim, who merely smiled and did not seem to be making a joke. She looked at John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson, who all gave her encouraging smiles. "Well…if there isn't much time, I'm sure one of the children would want to a lot more than me."

"I'm afraid both are too small for the harnesses," said Tim, offering her the harness again. Molly looked at Benny, who seemed perfectly content to battle imaginary pirates on the ship. Loo just smiled up at her in eagerness and squeezed her hand with her little one.

Molly looked at the harness, took a deep breath and nodded. She couldn't deny how much she wanted to do this, how long she hadwanted to do this. _Thank goodness I chose to wear pants today._

So Tim, with the help of a younger assistant, got Molly into the harness. It was surprisingly comfortable on her, but she could easily feel how it would be very uncomfortable for a male. The younger assistant went backstage to join two other young men who would pull the rope. "No need to fear, they do this on a daily basis," reassured Tim, and Molly nodded.

"Hold on a moment," she called to them, and crouched down to Loo's eye level. She smiled at the five-year-old and said, "I need some pixie dust first."

Loo smiled and nodded. She reached into a pouch of "pixie dust" she had been given from the company (Benny had been given his own pirate hat), and gently sprinkled some on Molly's head. Molly gave her cheek a kiss in thanks. She then stood up straight and nodded to Tim.

"You have to think of something happy, too," called Benny from the ship.

"Right," said Molly, who closed her eyes. Out of nowhere, a happy memory came into her mind from about four months ago…

* * *

_"Sherlock?"_

_ "What?" Sherlock snapped back irritably as he paced the length of the morgue. The cadaver that he and John had come to look over was one he had been sure fit into the pattern of a serial killer, but no marks had been found on the body that fit his MO: lethal injection. _

_ Molly had opened the mouth to examine for anything suspicious, and she certainly found something that fit into that category. "Under the tongue…it looks like a puncture mark…"_

_ Sherlock immediately stopped in his tracks and then, in the next second, made a beeline for her. He shoved her out of the way and grabbed her flashlight to look into the mouth himself. He ignored the punch Molly delivered to his arm in retaliation. John watched in amusement._

_ "But how could the killer have restrained…" Sherlock muttered to himself quietly, but in the next moment, he'd dropped the flashlight and his face lit up in an epiphany. It was an expression on him that she loved. "Oh, _brilliant!_"_

_ In the next moment, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around Molly, lifting her clean off the ground and spinning her around. Molly shrieked in surprise, but laughed at his huge smile. He looked so adorable in that moment, like Benny when he had won a game. "Oh, Molly, you wonderful woman! There's always something I miss and you spotted it!" He let her down and kissed both of her cheeks. "John, let's go. The game is on!"_

_ John, who was barely containing his grin, hurried after Sherlock out of the morgue. But a minute later, Sherlock poked his head back in and said, "You are perfect, Molly Hooper. Thank you." _

_ He was gone as quickly as he'd come, and Molly was left in the morgue, covering her flaming cheeks and giggling like a schoolgirl until tears came to her eyes…_

* * *

A grin was lighting up her face as the memory flooded through her mind, and she was brought back to reality when she felt that her feet were no longer touching the floor. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped when she realized she was airborne.

"You can fly!" cried Loo, clapping her hands.

"You can fly!" called Benny in a grand fashion.

"I can fly!" Molly breathed to herself, feeling as though her face would burst with how big her grin was. She was taken round and round the stage, and even over the audience a few times, and she relished it. Her arms spread out in the classic position, and she only let her eyes drift closed once, when she was sure she would burst from the happiness she was feeling.

* * *

John stood with an arm around Mary, a soft and content smile on his face as he watched Molly in flight. Remembering how she had been since the incident, seeing her so happy was wonderful to see. Knowing who would be the most happy at the sight of her, John pulled out his mobile and sent a text to said person:

_I think it's safe to say that phase two is a success. JW_

A reply came nine seconds later:

_No interruptions. SH_

John just smiled up at the balcony, where he knew his best friend was hiding somewhere in the shadows with a pair of binoculars before his eyes.

* * *

Tim was a happy man; it was moments like these that made him love his job. And after he had seen the good group out, his mobile gave a text alert noise. He pulled it out and saw it was from the man whom he had just returned a favor to by issuing those passes. It made him smile a bit, even if it only consisted of two words.

_Thank you. SH_


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: There's No Better Time to Start**

As much as she wanted to, Molly politely declined the invitation to join everyone for dinner. She had a few things she needed to do before her graveyard shift, including having a good nap before going to work. She would see them tomorrow afternoon, anyway, so she didn't feel too bad about refusing the offer.

When back in her flat, however, Molly found that she could do anything but sleep. Wanting to get out of her jeans, Molly changed into a long, blue-print summer dress (but kept the silver shoes on). She felt too happy, too bubbly; she danced and skipped everywhere she went, and hummed, whistled or sang to herself. As she baked some sweets for Benny and Loo that she would bring tomorrow afternoon, Molly gave her apartment a good scrub just to work off all of the energy.

_ One would think I'm a Disney princess, _thought Molly with a giggle, not minding at all.

However, when she arrived at St. Bart's at 8:30 pm, her enthusiasm had lessened by a margin. The thought of spending the next eight hours alone in the cold morgue didn't excite her. Not that she hated her job, for she didn't at all. It was just the fact that it was the graveyard shift that dampened her mood. It being a hospital, it never closed, and one never knew when fresh bodies would come in; crime never stopped, after all. But until that happened, Molly had very little to do down there except be on call.

Hence why, on graveyard shifts, she always brought a book with her. But as it turned out, bringing a book to this graveyard shift was completely unnecessary.

When Molly turned on the light in her office after putting her lab coat on over her dress, she gasped at what she saw on her desk. There lay a rose, but it wasn't a white and pink one like the others; this one was blood red. Beneath it lay a purple binder , which was full of what looked like notebook paper.

With trembling legs, Molly walked to her desk and sat down. With trembling fingers, she reached out and took the rose, pressing the bloom to her nose as she inhaled its sweet scent. Then she set it down so she could take a closer look at the binder. On the purple cover in silver sharpie was written her name in neat cursive.

Her heart pounding, Molly opened the binder.

It was indeed full of notebook paper, but the pages weren't blank. In blue ballpoint pen, the familiar handwriting of the world's only consulting detective filled every line. Flipping through a few of the pages, Molly saw that the format was like that of a journal or diary. Intrigued beyond words, Molly went to the first page again and read...

* * *

_16__th__ of February, 2009_

_ You had been working at St. Bart's for three weeks by the time I met you. I came in with Lestrade to examine a fresh body that was suspected to be the result of a pattern killer. You were doing his autopsy when we came in. I could see immediately that you were skilled in your job; steady hands, calm demeanor, not squeamish at all, efficient with your tools. I trailed behind Lestrade so I could assess if you would be good enough to help with my work; you passed immediately. _

_ Your hair was braided and tossed over your left shoulder. You wore no make-up and no jewelry, which I liked; it meant that you were focused on your work rather than your male colleagues. Your clothes beneath your lab coat were of abominable taste in an endearing way; you wore your jumper with cherries that day, along with oversized khakis, old clogs, and a mismatched plaid blouse beneath the jumper._

_ When Lestrade introduced us, that was when you first saw me. I could see you were attracted to me right away, by the way your cheeks flushed and how you stuttered slightly when you introduced yourself…_

* * *

Molly couldn't help but laugh as she read Sherlock's account of that day. The way he wrote was so like him. Not only his clear cursive writing, like a boy in prep school, but also the way he wrote: factual, to the point, no embellishments, but with a pure honesty that more than made up for that.

Her face flushed as she remembered that day, when she had first met Sherlock Holmes. She certainly _had _been attracted to him right away. How could she not be? She'd never seen a more beautiful man before, and when he began to speak…well, that was all that she wrote. Both the sound of his voice and what he said, showing his brilliance, were the final nails in her coffin – that Sherlock Holmes would become the center of her universe.

And as Molly spent the long graveyard shift reading the contents of the binder that bore her name, she learned that she, in turn, was the center of his.

He had recorded every encounter they had ever had. Even if it had only lasted for a few minutes, or if he only had a few words to describe it, he noted it. Because the paper was new and the ink was not faded, Molly could see that he had done all of this in a very short space of time. He had recorded meetings that she herself had forgotten about, but remembered perfectly when she read his account of them. In chronological order they came: the year she had spent working up the courage to ask him out, the day she finally did (which was the same day John came into his life), Sherlock's way of being a good friend by harshly telling her Jim from IT was gay, that disaster of a Christmas…

* * *

_ …My intention was not to hurt you. That was never my intention. I was already in a very bad mood by the fact that we were having a party at all, when John knows perfectly well how I feel about the holidays. Also, that woman was sending texts with that stupid sexual sound more times than I can count, setting my temper on edge. I needed to lash out at something, and you – in that dress that left _very _little to the imagination and gave me a feeling in my stomach I couldn't define – were the easiest target. When I realized how much I had humiliated you, the both of us really, believe me when I say that I felt genuine remorse for what I had done. My apology was sincere, and I kissed your cheek to try and show that. I may hate Christmas, but it was not my desire to ruin yours…_

* * *

Molly sighed as she read those words, for she couldn't deny that he'd had a hand in ruining her lonely, pathetic Christmas, especially with what happened after the Christmas party. The thought that he could be cruel about her feelings while he held them for another was a thought that had really turned her self-esteem to shit.

It wasn't until the events of The Fall that her self-esteem had truly and strongly been rebuilt, to a state where it was still standing strong…

* * *

_…There is always something that I miss. And, like Moriarty, that something was you. This day is important to me for multiple reasons. It was not until this day in the lab that I realized how you see not only myself but yourself. This was the day that I truly realized how much you count. This was the day I began to see you the way you see me. So, when I realized what Moriarty had planned for me, when I realized that I needed help, the first thing to come into my mind was you, whom I trust with all of myself._

_ I told no lie when I said I needed you. At the time, I thought it only applied to the present appalling circumstances, and how I needed your help. But, knowing and accepting my heart now, I realize how much I truly meant those words and all they encompassed…_

* * *

Molly could not stop her eyes filling as she read this day and the days that followed, when she'd sheltered him in her flat, tended his wounds, and waved him goodbye when he had recovered. Of the days he was off hunting Moriarty's men he said not a word; Molly understood from the moment he got back that it was a time Sherlock never wanted to reflect on again.

But reading the six months after his return made Molly both smile and blush. This was the period when they had really been friends, but it had also been the period where Sherlock's feelings were fighting to be heard and understood. One particular entry that involved Molly wearing her hair down at work and Sherlock experiencing an impulse to rip her cherry jumper off her made her blush redder than a tomato.

The last dated entry was the day before the incident in Kensington Gardens, the day she had learned her diagnosis…the day Sherlock had come to terms with his heart…

* * *

…_John was very surprised when he found out that I neither know nor care what is the center of the universe. That is still irrelevant to me, because it is irrelevant to my work. However, it does matter to me what is the center of _my _universe, that I have spent my whole life organizing and cultivating to exactly what I want. But you, Molly Hooper, changed all of that, and I spent the last months denying it, rebelling against it, for Mycroft has told me all my life that caring is not an advantage. But this day, I accepted that my universe had shifted and had a new center. And suddenly everything made logical sense again._

_ That is, and I have no doubt will be as long as I live, you._

* * *

And with that, the entries ended.

Molly Hooper quite possibly experienced every emotion known to mankind when she was finished. She laughed and cried at the same time, at one point getting nearly hysterical. But when she finally calmed down, she saw the clock: her shift had ended two minutes ago.

She didn't think – she acted. She stripped off her lab coat, grabbed her purse, the rose, and the binder (this she clasped close to her chest), and ran out of St. Bart's.

Upon coming outside into the chilly pre-dawn darkness, onto the sidewalk, she saw a familiar, fancy black car parked by the curb. The window rolled down, and she saw the face of Mycroft, who had a soft smirk on his face.

The words came out effortlessly: "Please, will you take me to him?"

Mycroft's smirk became a smile, and the door opened to her.

* * *

**A/N: **_Not sure when the next chapter will be up, so please do this homework if you want to have an idea of what happens next - or really, what inspired what happens next. Go to Youtube, and look up this video: 'Christopher and Valentine lost in the fog'. I didn't throw in the _Parade's End_ earlier in the story for nothing. :)_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: The Land We Dream Of**

As the elegant black car made its way towards the unknown destination, Molly Hooper was the definition of "a bundle of nerves." She felt like any trigger would turn her into a blob of jelly, and her heart was beating as fast as that of a mouse, it felt like (and that was pretty damn fast). Her knuckles were white as they clutched the binder on her lap, the rose laying on top of that. Outside, it was quite hard to see much of anything. The sun had not yet risen, and a fog lay over everything. The old streetlights were all that could truly be seen, making Molly think they had traveled back in time to the days of Queen Victoria's reign. Mycroft sat in the front passenger seat, silent and calm. His assistant – Anthea, she called herself – sat beside her in the back, her eyes glued to the screen of her phone as she texted endlessly.

When the car pulled to a stop, Molly looked out of the window and silently gasped. Then again, could she really be surprised? "Of course…" she muttered, shaking her head.

Mycroft chuckled and turned in his seat to look at her. "You can leave your things here, since you'll be back here fairly soon, I should think."

"Oh…okay," said Molly, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing. But based on Mycroft's smile, Molly decided to take it as a good thing. She got out of the car, and started down the path that led into Kensington Gardens.

With each second, the daylight became a little brighter as the still unseen sun approached the horizon. The fog stayed as strong as ever, obscuring almost everything in sight as she walked along the garden paths. The air was chilly, as it always was just before dawn. In just her long summer dress, Molly shivered and rubbed her bare arms and shoulders to warm them up. "Sherlock?" she called, when she had been walking for a few minutes. "Where are you?" She sighed, looking around but seeing almost nothing but fog. _He could at least make some noise, _she thought.

As if on cue, she _did _hear something. It was music, and it sounded like…a violin. The melody was one she recognized right away, and a huge grin lit up her face. "The Second Star to the Right" had never sounded so lovely to her. She picked up her long skirt, and began to jog in the direction of the music, her heart pounding as steadily as a drum now. And the further she went in that direction, the more she realized where she was being led.

It was so obvious now, she silently berated herself for not realizing it before. _Where else would he lead me, after all?_

And when she got there, her breath was taken away.

By the time Molly had reached the Peter Pan statue, the sun was rising, its rays casting a beautiful golden light on the mist. In the surrounding trees and bushes hung lights one normally saw around Christmas, all colors and some blinking. Molly spun on the spot, forgetting the chill for a moment, and giggled with joy.

_No, I am definitely not in Kansas anymore…but I do think I'm in Neverland…_

The song finished, and the sound of the violin faded away. This made Molly begin to look around again, walking around the statue. "Where are you?" she called. But no response came.

When she came to the bench she usually sat at when she came here – the bench where she had sat when he'd been so horrible – Molly carefully stepped onto it so she could look around. The gold and silver mist covered everything didn't help in her search. But then, her entire body sensed him approaching behind her, so she slowly and carefully turned around on the bench.

Out of the mist he appeared, so close to her that she would only need to lean forward a few inches and she would be kissing him. Even though she stood on the bench, because he was so tall she was now only an inch or so taller than him. All at once, his entire presence – hair, face, open coat, scarf, scent – threatened to overwhelm her. It had been almost four weeks since she had last seen him or heard from him at all. And now, here he was, standing so close to her. In the light of the rising sun, shining off his alabaster skin and dark curls, he was so beautiful. His silver eyes swam with powerful emotion, but his gaze into her own was powerful.

"Molly…" he said softly, like a plea or a prayer. Safe to say, Molly's insides turned to jelly at the sound of that voice. She hadn't heard this tone since he'd come to her for help: hoarse, deep, nearly breaking. "I am…I'm so sorry…so very sorry…"

Feeling her knees become weak, Molly put trembling hands on his shoulders. "Help me down," she breathed.

He obeyed by putting his hands (which were so warm Molly could swear they burned through the fabric of her summer dress) on her waist and gently lifted her down. Once her feet were safely on the ground again, Sherlock's hands withdrew from her waist, took her own from his shoulders, and placed them flat on his chest. His skin was warm beneath the purple fabric of his shirt (damn that irresistible shirt), and his heartbeat was going at least double the normal rate. Just like hers was.

Looking from her hands to his eyes, the expression in them had not changed, only intensified. Was it only a trick of the rising sun, or did he have tears in his gold and silver eyes? As tears filled her own eyes, she closed them tightly. Memories flooded back into her mind: what had happened that horrible day, the pain it had caused her, being comforted by her friends, adjusting to her diagnosis, waiting for what would happen next…all of his kind acts…seeing the show…getting to fly…the binder all for her…

When she opened her eyes again, she could still see him, though her vision was slightly blurred. There were only three words she could manage to say to him as she gripped his shirt tightly:

_"You silly ass."_

She then pulled him down and went on her tiptoes, so she could kiss his nose. When she would look back on this action, Molly would only conclude that her emotions were overwhelming her, and the action just seemed to make sense to her.

Then, her emotions overwhelmed her, and her head collapsed onto his chest as she cried. Warmth enveloped her, and her arms wrapped around his thin frame under his coat.

She felt safer than she had in her life.

* * *

Nearby, John Watson stood leaning against a tree. He held Sherlock's violin, which his best friend had passed him the moment Molly had gotten onto the bench. The mist had obscured his vision for a while, but now as the sun had cleared the horizon and chased the mist away, his view cleared.

And what he saw made him grin.

There stood Sherlock and Molly. The latter was leaning her head against the former, her face buried against his chest. He had wrapped both his coat and his arms around her, holding her tiny frame to him. His face was buried in her hair, and John could have sworn he saw him kiss her head.*

Chuckling softly, John took out his mobile and – after taking a photo of this beautiful little tableau – texted Mycroft (in case the mist had obscured his security cameras):

**Mission accomplished.**

* * *

*****_The thought of this imaged was what inspired this story in the first place. Isn't it cute, him being so tall and that coat looking so warm? :D BTW, everyone see the teaser trailer for Series 3? OMG, I'm still squealing!_


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **_Of course I wasn't going to completely end it there! They still have some things say and do, if you know what I mean (and before your dirty minds go there, this rating is NOT going any higher). One more chapter after this one to tie up all of the loose ends. BTW, there's a reason she calls him that in the last chapter - look at the Peter Pan quote I threw in all those chapters ago! _

_Now, trailer talk: so glad you're as excited as I am! As for the controversial moustache on John…I understand why: that's the traditional Watson look from the books. But I don't like it on Martin – MUCH cuter clean-shaved. And I don't know about you, but the way Benedict looks in the trailer makes you wanna reach out and hold him. UGH, my heart is still melting!_

_Okay, on with the story!_

* * *

**Chapter 17: Bid Your Tears Goodbye**

When Molly woke up, she didn't open her eyes right away, feeling very content and warm. She knew she was in her bed, but she also knew that she was not alone. She felt the proof of that spooned up behind her, and the weight of his left arm over her waist. A small smile lit up her face as she remembered how they got there…

_ After the sobs had left Molly for good, and no more tears were left to be cried, Molly felt one thing more than anything: pure exhaustion. She had, after all, worked the graveyard shift after seeing a show and helping to look after two children, as well as finally made her way back to her consulting detective. That would be enough to make a dozen people exhausted, let alone just one._

_ So, she lifted her heavy head to look up at Sherlock. Nearly all of the mist was gone now, and the light was much brighter than it had been when she'd arrived at the gardens. But her attention was focused completely on Sherlock. A tear was glistening on his cheek, and Molly didn't think twice about reaching up her hand and cupping that cheek, wiping the tear away with her thumb. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, almost resting his head in her hand._

_ "I think it's safe to say we're both exhausted," she softly said. She remembered Mycroft waiting in his car nearby. "Come on."_

_ Everything after that was a bit of a blur. Sherlock had wrapped her in his coat before walking out of the gardens, almost leaning on each other. Molly very possibly dozed off in the car ride to her flat. By some unspoken understanding, Sherlock followed her from the car and into her flat. After placing the red rose in the vase with the others, and putting the precious binder on her desk, the two of them went into her bedroom. He'd stripped of his suit jacket, shoes, socks and belt, and she'd kicked off her silver flats and lovingly removed his coat and scarf. Then they'd gotten under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly…_

Molly couldn't remember if they had fallen asleep in this position or not. She decided it didn't matter.

She was brought from her reverie by a lovely feeling. Her smile widened when she opened her eyes: Sherlock had laced his fingers with her own. She squeezed his hand in response. "How long have you been awake?" asked Molly before she yawned.

"Approximately three minutes and seven seconds," came the deep reply, his warm breath tickling her neck.

Molly blushed but still smiled. She looked at her alarm clock on the bedside table, and saw that it was just after eleven o'clock. Feeling her body make some demands, she sighed. "I'm going to use the bathroom, then I want to have a talk, ok?"

Sherlock responded by pulling her closer to him for a moment, which made Molly grin. She never would have made out Sherlock Holmes for a cuddler, but she was delighted to find this was true. But she also resolved never to mention this out loud, for she knew Sherlock would immediately cease to be that. So, she kissed his fingers and gently pried herself from his hold.

Once safely inside her bathroom, she leaned against the closed door and hid her red face in her hands. _So this isn't all a dream, then…thank goodness. _But even in her happiness, Molly did not let herself get carried away. She really did want to talk with him, face to face, about everything that had happened, before she could forgive him.

So, after using the toilet, washing her hands and face, and giving her teeth a quick brush, Molly left the bathroom and came back into her bedroom. There sat Sherlock at the foot of the bed – and Molly could not help the giggles that escaped her.

Sherlock definitely looked like he had just rolled out of bed. His usually crisp clothes were wrinkled, and his mess of black curls were even more voluminous and messy than they usually were. To top it all off, there was a pout on his face at her reaction to him; in his state, it was utterly adorable.

Molly felt very glad that her long, casual summer dress was made of a comfortable material that did not wrinkle. "And I thought _my _hair was messy in the morning," she managed to say as she picked up her brush from her dresser.

After sitting down on the bed with her legs crossed, she said, "Come here." Sherlock obediently turned around and mirrored her position on the bed. When Molly lifted her brush, he stopped her.

"While I do not doubt that you are lice-free, it would not be a good idea to share a brush," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "Your fingers will more than suffice."

It took all of Molly's self-control not to grin like a complete idiot, and only give a little smile. She wasted no time and gently combed her fingers through his curls, trying her best to tame them while nearly purring at how soft they were. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do this?" she asked softly, speaking both to herself and Sherlock.

His answer was prompt and logical, though his eyes and smirk showed his satisfaction. "Four years, four months, and twenty-one days."

Molly burst out laughing; Sherlock smiled, closed his eyes, and came as close to purring as a human could come under her ministrations. The only other time Molly had run her fingers through his hair had been nothing like this: it had been when she had washed the blood that was not his from his hair after The Fall. This time was much more enjoyable for the both of them.

When she thought he looked presentable, Molly withdrew her hands and said, "There."

Because her French braid had become very messy during her nap, Molly reached for her brush, but Sherlock beat her to it. "Turn around," he ordered. A grinning Molly obeyed and closed her eyes, wanting to give all of her attention to the physical sensations of what was to come.

With fingers that were methodical but gentle, Sherlock undid the braid, combing her hair out with his fingers before applying the brush. With his right hand, he brushed through her long hair in long strokes; his other hand rested on her left shoulder, his thumb absently stroking the skin of her neck. "You've quite a lot of glitter in your hair," murmured Sherlock, and she nearly jumped when she felt his breath on her ear.

"That's alright, it will wash out," replied Molly softly. She reached up her hand to cover his own on her shoulder. "I can't deny how angry I've been, Sherlock, but I also can't deny that I still missed you."

Remembering what she still needed, Molly turned around and faced Sherlock, who has tossed the brush aside. They both sat facing each other, cross-legged on the bed, their knees almost touching, like two children. Molly folded her hands, ready for answers. "What was it that you were after that day, Sherlock? What did you really want to say to me?"

Sherlock gulped, looking contrite. "I wish that I had an answer for you, Molly. After coming to terms with my…well, my feelings…the previous night, it took all of my self-control not to go to your flat right then and there. All I know is that I needed to see you, knowing what I finally understood. I do not know what I would have said if things hadn't…gone so wrong."

"You mean if you hadn't been so cruel," said Molly frankly.

Sherlock had the sense to let his shame color his expression. Molly leaned forward and pinned him with a deep gaze.

"You really hurt me, Sherlock. And if you expect an apology for how I reacted to your cruelty, stop now. You deserved it."

Despite how horrible he still felt for what he had done, Sherlock could not help but feel such a rush of admiration for Molly. She had come so far from the shy little pathologist who could never speak to him without stuttering; he much preferred this Molly, who's self-worth and dignity were as strong as her heart.

He slowly nodded, keeping eye contact with her. "Yes…I did. There is no excuse for what I did, so I will not try to make any."

"I think I can understand what may have led you to do it, though," said Molly. Now that she was certain of his heart, it became quite clear to her really. "Whenever you're on a case, and something about it is unclear, the more frustrated you become and the more you lash out at people. It's like that, isn't it?"

"Brilliant deduction, Molly Hooper," replied Sherlock, who hung his head in shame.

But Molly cupped his face and lifted his head. "You didn't mean to hurt me, did you?"

"No! Never, Molly," was Sherlock's immediate response.

Molly smiled, lowered her hands and took his hands in hers. "Well, now that I know the reasoning behind your actions, I want to know the reasoning behind your wonderful apology. Tell me everything."

Sherlock visibly relaxed, and eagerly began in his logical tone: "The night that John and I returned from the case in Prague, I stayed up the night thinking of what I needed to do for you, and what you needed from me. The next morning, I told John the plan and he helped me to refine it. I then spent the next week and a half writing the contents of the binder, so you could see that my heart was yours. I had originally planned on typing up the pages, but John said that a handwritten presentation would be more personal, and would provide irrefutable proof that this came from me as opposed to another person."

Molly's smile grew into a smirk at her next words: "I can't believe you even resorted to asking your brother to get those sold-out tickets and passes."

Sherlock scowled. "I did not _beg. _Mycroft was more than happy to assist in my plan. And he may have been the one to get the tickets, but _I _got the passes. I had solved a minor problem for Timothy some years ago, and I called upon that debt for the passes and letting you fly. You had told me that was the dream of your childhood while I was hiding in your flat."

Her soft smile was back again. "Was it your idea or John's to include his niece and nephew?"

"John's. You had not seen them for three months, John said they would love to see the show, and that you would enjoy seeing it with them."

Molly raised one of his hands to her lips and kissed it. "And the silent acts of kindness during my time?" she asked quietly. She had been the most curious about this part of his plan.

To her surprise, Sherlock looked shy as he answered, preferring to look at their interlocked fingers as he responded. "That was the most difficult part of the plan, due to the fact that I had to be invisible and John said I was not to, under any circumstances, break into your flat again – even for this. However, it helped that you are a creature of habit and I knew your schedule." Sherlock raised his eyes to meet hers again, remorse returning to his eyes. "What I wanted to convey was that I was capable of kindness, and that I would be able to take care of you when you needed to be taken care of, just as you did with me."

Molly had never been more touched or relieved in all of her life. For when he said that, she knew that they were truly going to be okay.

"Oh, Sherlock…" she breathed, leaning forward so their foreheads rested against each other, their hands still entwined between them.

They stayed silent for a minute before Sherlock spoke again, in the tone of a boy that has just learned something extraordinary. "It has never been this easy."

"What?"

"Being…human. All my life, that has never been easy. Not until you…only with you do I feel…I _can _be."

"I'm glad. Why do you suppose that is?"

"Because I'm in love with you."

He said it in that logical and matter-of-fact tone that he so often used, but to Molly, it blew any kind of flowery speech or poetic response out of the water. This was pure Sherlock, and how he _would _say it. She never thought he would, but he had. She blinked away happy tears, and rested her forehead on his shoulder. "I love you, Sherlock. Now and for always."

Sherlock responded by kissing her cheek gently and resting his own forehead on her shoulder.

But before the moment could grow to anything further, Molly's phone beeped with an alert. She groaned and reached out for her phone. "Oh, I almost forgot!" she cried, looking at the alert. "I promised John I would help him look after Benny and Loo at Baker Street this afternoon."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, do you have to?"

Molly couldn't help but laugh; he really _was _such a child sometimes. She got off the bed and pulled him with her. "Yes, I do, I promised. Now, come on. You know I don't have to work until tomorrow morning, so my evening is free for you, all right?"

"I'll hold you to that, Molly Hooper," said Sherlock in a deep tone, standing close to her.

Molly grinned and her brown eyes twinkled. "You have my word, Sherlock Holmes."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: All The Joy You'll Find**

Upon exiting her flat, Sherlock hailed a cab that took them back to Baker Street. But before going up to 221B, Molly insisted that they say hello to Mrs. Hudson, just to let her know that things were all right again. "She's been so good to me, Sherlock, and I know she's worried about the both of us," reasoned Molly as they got out of the cab.

"If you wish," said Sherlock, who kept her hand in his, as he had since leaving her flat; he was even carrying the tin of pastries Molly had made for the occasion in his free hand. He knew that Mrs. Hudson would find out sooner rather than later, but had no objections to letting her know now.

But when they knocked on her door, there was no answer. "Most likely, she is up with John and the children," Sherlock deduced. "If she had gone out, she would have locked her door more securely."

"Come on, then," said Molly, and pulled him up the stairs. She knocked on the door, and John immediately opened it, his eyes filled with eager excitement for the pair of them. He took one look at their joined hands and Molly's happy expression, and then pulled her into a tight hug. "Thank you so much, John," said Molly, the tone of her voice telling him exactly what that gratitude encompassed.

And he heard it. "My pleasure, truly, Molls," he murmured. He was going to give her cheek a friendly kiss, but then caught his best friend's stare that would certainly turn into a glare if he did that. He chuckled and let Molly go, so she could greet Benny and Loo. He chuckled again when he saw that _she _had to pull _her _hand from his in order to do so.

"Come on," said John, gently pushing Sherlock inside. "Hang up your coat, and then take those," he indicated the tin Sherlock was holding, "to Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen."

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock after he hung up his coat; his tone was the same as Molly's had been.

John smiled, and gripped Sherlock's shoulder for a moment. "You did good, mate," he said in a low voice. "Let's make sure that continues, yeah?"

Sherlock's glare wasn't nearly as strong as it could have been as he nodded curtly. He then went into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was pouring out tea. She had heard the arrival of Sherlock and Molly from the kitchen, so her smile was knowing when she saw Sherlock and took the tin of pastries from him. "I'm proud of you, dearie," she murmured.

He allowed her to pull him into a hug, which he returned as he whispered, "Thank you for looking after her when I couldn't."

"Always, Sherlock," she said, patting his back and letting him go. "I love the three of you like my own, and always will."

* * *

Meanwhile, Molly greeted Benny and Loo with a big bear hug as Sherlock had his moment with Mrs. Hudson.

"So, what does your uncle have planned for us this afternoon?" she asked the two of them but looking at John.

"Well, Harry's coming by around three, so that leaves us just enough time for a movie," he said, smiling playfully as he revealed the DVD he was holding behind his back: Disney's animated _Peter Pan._

The children cheered and Molly laughed. "Why am I not surprised?"

John laughed, and knelt down by the television to set it up. Molly took a seat on one side of the couch, while Benny and Loo happily sat down on the floor, one with their pirate hat on and the other holding their blue blankie. The latter chose to sit by and lean against Molly's legs. Molly reached down and rubbed Loo's little head with affection.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen, spotted Molly sitting on the sofa, and smirked. In the next moment, he had come to the couch and laid down on it like he so often did, but this time with his head on Molly's lap. Of course, he waited until he'd already done it before asking, "Do you mind?"

John shook his head in a silent chuckle, while Molly giggled in spite of herself. "Well, even if I did, you look quite comfortable," she replied, and gently ran her fingers through his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and almost purred again, while he placed her other hand on his chest, which he promptly covered with his own.

In the next moment there came a knock on the door. John went to get it, and Sherlock opened his eyes to roll them, muttering "of course" under his breath. In came Mycroft, who took one look at the two people on the couch, and smirked before seating himself comfortably in an armchair. "Just thought I would pay a visit to see how progress has been made."

"You knew from the moment progress was made, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "You just came because Molly made sweets."

"That too," said Mycroft pleasantly, nodding at Molly, who smiled.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to come in on cue, and John gave her a hand in passing out tea to the adults, juice to the children, and Molly's cakes to everyone. "Just one each, you hear me?" said Mrs. Hudson to the children and the Holmes boys. She sat down in the other arm chair, and John pulled a chair in from the kitchen so he wouldn't have to sit on the floor.

Remote control in hand, John scrolled through the previews as he spoke to those two men. "You do realize we're about to watch an animated movie for children that has very little to do with logic, right?"

"Yes, of course," replied Mycroft casually. "While I'm sure the mere idea of my brother and I as children baffles the mind, I assure you it was once true. And this J.M. Barrie story happened to be both of our favorites growing up – book, movie and play. So a stroll down Memory Lane of the best kind does not go unvalued by me."

John couldn't help but grin at the mere thought of Mycroft and Sherlock as children. He then turned his head to the latter and said: "Do I need to remind you to _please _not behave as you usually do when watching television?"

Before Sherlock could reply, Mycroft said, "I wouldn't worry about that, John. My little brother seems as happy as a clam where he is."

"Shut up, Mycroft," said Sherlock like a five-year-old. But Molly's hand stroked his curls a little more deeply, and he relaxed with closed eyes again.

Molly turned her head to John and said, "I'm very glad we're watching this, John. Because, I would say _this _Peter Pan, more than any other, is like him." Not one of the adults needed to ask who she meant by that.

* * *

And so the movie commenced, and Molly could not remember enjoying watching a movie more. The two children were quite familiar with the movie, but that didn't mean they still didn't love it with such excitement. They were so engrossed in the movie, they never minded when the adults would make quiet comments to each other.

John, who had not seen the movie since he'd been a child, found himself enjoying it very much, especially when he could see that Molly was right: in many ways, Sherlock was just like this Peter Pan. At one point, Mycroft poked fun at him when Wendy's character was introduced, as the person who told the stories of Peter Pan's adventures. "You must admit, that _does _sound similar."

"No! Peter loves Wendy's stories, can't say the same for that one," snapped John, waving his hand at the detective.

"John's much more like the boy John in the story," said Molly, making a good point, which John was grateful for and liked very much.

Mycroft's stony exterior melted a bit, under the magical influence of Molly's pastries and good company. At the beginning, when shown John and Michael fighting with play swords, he could have sworn he was watching him and his little brother from so long ago.

Mrs. Hudson couldn't have been happier, surrounded by the people she loved and who loved her. During the song dedicated to mothers, all of the adults raised a glass to her. But what warmed her heart the most was when, during that song Molly looked like she would cry, Sherlock kissed her hand and the girl was immediately soothed, giving him a loving look.

Sherlock did, indeed, behave himself – mostly due to his comfortable position, and Molly's small, soft hands stroking his hair and chest. Sometimes he kept his eyes closed, as if he had retreated into his Mind Palace; sometimes, he would turn his head to watch it (especially when a pirate was onscreen).

When he did make comments, they were quiet so only Molly could hear them:

_"Yes, Mycroft and I did play similar duels, but I assure you, his weight ensured I was the victor nine times out of ten."_

_ "Girls _do _talk too much; he's a smart lad, that one."_

_ "Why on Earth do you compare yourself to that Tinker Bell, you're not like that at all!"_

This last comment was made quite a few times, especially in the beginning. And he made perfect sense to Molly: she was, indeed, not nearly as vain, sulky or dangerously jealous as the little pixie. But near the end, Sherlock refrained from that comment as he saw the character of Tinker Bell show her heart – which held a deep love for her boy wonder.

Sherlock was the most invested watcher when Peter was about to open the bomb Hook had left for him, and Tinker Bell came just in time to push it away from him, taking the full blast of it and thereby saving his life. Then, in the rubble of his hideout, as the boy who never grew up called desperately out for his pixie, Sherlock had her hand on his chest in a vice grip.

_Tinker Bell had just told him that Wendy and the boys had been kidnapped by Hook, and to go save them._

_ "I've got to save you first!" called Peter Pan as he crawled through the rubble towards the dying, fading Tinker Bell. "Hold on, Tink! Hold on! Don't go out! Oh, don't you understand, Tink? You mean more to me than anything in this whole world!"_

It happened so quickly, it was a miracle that Molly didn't make a sound. The moment after that scene had ended, Sherlock had jumped up and pulled Molly with him out of the living room, into his own bedroom, and closed the door. One was too determined and the other was too shocked to take note of anybody else's reactions.

"Sherlock, what –?" was all Molly could say in her shock. Sherlock was looking at her wildly, almost desperately, but with a tenderness that melted her heart. He took her face in his hands and leaned forward slightly; his mouth opened and closed, but it was his eyes that asked permission.

Molly understood, smiled, and nodded.

And he kissed her, both tender and passionate at the same time, with some hesitation though, since he had never kissed anybody before. Molly responded with her heart on her lips, melting at how soft his lips were against her own. Soon, their arms wrapped around each other in rejoicing relief.

And when their lips finally parted for air, neither could determine or care who had a bigger – or sillier – grin on their face.

* * *

Sherlock and Molly joined the group only a minute after they had disappeared, when Peter Pan and a restored Tinker Bell returned to save Wendy and the boys for the final showdown with Hook and the pirates. Both ignored the looks from the adults – happy Mrs. Hudson, smirking Mycroft, satisfied John – and settled back on the couch to watch the rest of the movie as eagerly as the children sitting on the floor.

All was right with the world in Baker Street that afternoon. And it was only the beginning.

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **_And there you have it! My goodness, this story has come such a long way since I first got the idea. It was inspired by two things: that image of Sherlock and Molly I pointed out two chapters ago, and I wanted to have Molly be a literal ball-buster. Your reviews and support have overwhelmed, humbled, and thrilled me, for I was very unconfident in taking this realm on. Glad you like me! And keep an eye out – this is just the beginning for me in this forum._

_P.S. Please, if you can, watch Disney's animated _Peter Pan. _If you watch it with Sherlock and these characters in mind, it's amazing how many comparisons can be made._


End file.
